


Unshackled

by LiraelClayr007



Series: Bucky Barnes Bingo! [4]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (of the short term), Amnesia, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Archery, Beauty and the Beast reference, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes's Trigger Words, Deaf Clint Barton, Depressed Clint Barton, Dreams, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Escape, First Time, Fluff, Hallucinations, Hand Jobs, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Will add more tags and characters as they come up, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, enhanced clint barton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 60,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26430493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraelClayr007/pseuds/LiraelClayr007
Summary: When Clint wakes up with a concussion and no memory of how he got it, he figures things are bad.When he realizes he's also shackled to the wall of the tiny room he's in, he figures things arereallybad.But when he realizes the Winter Soldier is shackled to the opposite wall?Clint figures his bad day turned full-on disaster, and he's got no idea how he's gonna get out.This is the story of an Archer and a Soldier. An Avenger and a brainwashed assassin. At the heart of it, two men who are bound in more ways than they know, both by heavy shackles and, eventually, to each other.
Relationships: Background Steve Rogers/Tony Stark - Relationship, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Bucky Barnes Bingo! [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807465
Comments: 228
Kudos: 202
Collections: Bucky Barnes Bingo 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, the WinterHawk Sunshine au exactly no one ever asked for!
> 
> Okay, so _I_ asked for it. I was reading Robin McKinley's Sunshine (if you never have, you should, it's one of my favorite books ever) for the hundredth time and I came to a certain scene and thought, Huh. That would be really interesting with Bucky and Clint.
> 
> And then my brain wouldn't stop.
> 
> It's not a true retelling. Not even an au, really. Let's just say it's "loosely based" on the novel. Because there are no vampires (sorry!) and I wander around the storyline. But the spine is there, and the more I write the more I find parallels I didn't even realize were hiding in my brain at first. So that's kinda fun.
> 
> Anyway, as a birthday gift to myself I'm posting chapter one. I have zero schedule in mind, but a bunch of this is already written, and I'm writing more on it most every day so...I'll get there.
> 
> Oh, and the E-rating isn't earned until later–did you see the "slow burn" tag???–but trust me, it's well-earned. ;)
> 
> Lira 🏹
> 
> p.s. Thanks to Pherryt for being my awesome alpha/beta/first reader/all-around-best-everything. What would I do without you?? (Honestly, I wouldn't even be here without you, so...)
> 
> p.p.s. Thanks also to Vex and Squaddy for cheering me on...and for letting me use the braincell on occasion.

Clint swims to consciousness slowly, and not without some pain. His face is pressed against a cold tile floor. A cold, _dirty_ tile floor, he amends; he can feel grit against his cheek. Before he even opens his eyes he shifts his head slightly to the side and immediately makes a mental note to avoid doing that in the future. When did something hit him in the back of the head? It feels like it was a shovel, or maybe a tank. He cracks one eye and reevaluates. Three tanks, at least. Nothing less could have caused this much dizziness and nausea. Not to mention the stabbing pain.

Okay, the pain is bad, and the sickening feeling along with it is maybe worse. But he needs to prioritize, and there are more important things. To start, where is he? Who brought him here? And finally–a very distant third– _why_? That last one is for future Clint to deal with. Future Clint isn’t dealing with a possible concussion and certain memory loss.

He does a quick check of the rest of his body, tightening and relaxing muscles. It doesn’t feel like anything but his head is hurt too badly, although there’s an ache in his side that feels like it might be a bruised rib or two. He won’t be able to tell until he’s up and moving around, which isn’t going to be easy. Not with his head making him see stars every time he tries to move.

At least he can hear himself breathing. That means they left him his aids. Whoever “they” are.

He doesn’t hear anything else, though. Is he in a soundproof space? Or maybe he’s just truly alone. The fact that he hears no ambient sounds is telling. He’s either deep within a building, far underground, or far enough away from the city that he can’t hear any traffic noises.

Okay, he’s got to quit stalling. Maybe just rolling onto his side? He can’t make out much of his immediate surroundings laying here on his stomach, and he really needs to do _something_. Even figuring out where he is–or even just figuring out how to _move_ –would give him back some control of his situation. (He knows this isn’t really true. This is exactly the kind of situation where he _doesn’t_ have control. But a few baby steps can’t hurt.)

The best way is to just do it, right? He slides his right arm along the floor until he can flip his hand; when his palm is against the floor he pushes–slowly, slowly–with the goal of shifting his weight onto his left side. He’s got to pull up his knees a little to keep steady, but when he does there’s a clanking of metal and some resistance from his right foot.

His brain puts together the sound and the feeling at once, and the conclusion thrusts him closer to panic. Without thinking he jerks his foot against the shackle, even knowing it won’t work, and scrambles to his hands and knees.

“Fuck!” he shouts. Or, he means to shout; his voice is barely a whisper. Had he been screaming? Or has his voice just been unused for too long? But these thoughts are just flickers in the background of the agony in his head.

“Moving’s a bad idea, I think.”

He’s so startled he scuttles backwards until his back is against the wall. He’s trying to see but the room is so dark; the other man is in shadows, and his vision is a bit blurry around the edges from whatever had been done to him. Had he been drugged or just knocked out? And then the pain of moving catches up to him, and it’s worse than all the rest combined. The nausea is so bad he turns to the side and wretches, but nothing comes up. Maybe he’s been here long enough that there’s nothing in his stomach to lose.

“I told you you shouldn’t be moving,” says the voice, this time with a hint of amusement in the tone. “Looks like you took a nasty hit to the head. You’ve got great vision, Hawkeye, but it doesn’t help if there’s no one to watch your back.”

There’s a hint of–is it sarcasm?–when he says “Hawkeye,” and the voice seems oddly familiar. Clint squints, trying to make out the face of the man across from him, but there are still too many shadows.

“Be thankful for the darkness. I know you wish you could see better, but trust me: bright lights and a concussion are not a good combination.”

Clint wishes he felt confident enough of his balance to snort. Instead he lets his voice drip with some sarcasm of his own. “You’re telling me HYDRA’s into kindness now? Right. First we’ll give him a concussion, then we’ll make him feel all cozy.” Because of course it had been HYDRA. This whole thing just screams HYDRA attack.

Even if he can’t remember any of it.

The other man actually _does_ snort.. “Not _HYDRA_. Just me. I’m the one who asked them to leave the light off. I know what a concussion feels like.”

Clint stops himself just before he rolls his eyes–it would probably hurt. “So now I’m supposed to believe you’re my friend, that you’re here to take care of me, so I’ll tell you whatever you want to hear? Do you really think that kind of lame-brain scheme is going to work?”

There’s a soft sigh, and then, “Believe what you want.” Then the man shifts, and his face falls out of the shadows and into the barely there light for the first time. In the span of a heartbeat Clint realizes two things.

The first comes as a bit of a shock, and he wonders if maybe he’s hallucinating due to his blow to the head. He knows why the man’s voice sounds so familiar. He knows who it is, and his blood runs cold.

He does not want to be shut in a room with this man.

The second is smaller but maybe just as jarring: the other man is shackled to the wall, too. He’s got shackles on his right arm and left ankle. It doesn’t make any sense.

And before his brain can talk him out of it, his mouth goes ahead and blurts out, “You’re a prisoner too?”

“Yes,” says the Winter Soldier, voice even, almost resigned.

“Fuck,” breathes Clint, because that seems like the only thing to say. Then he adds, “Those must be some hefty shackles.”

The Soldier grins. It is not a nice grin. It is a grin that says, _I could rip your arms off, and it would be entirely fun for me._ “They went through quite a few tries before they found something that worked.”

Clint swallows, or tries to. His mouth has suddenly gone dry. In a small room with the Winter Soldier is not a good place for him to be. How many Avengers has he tried to kill now? That he hasn’t succeeded– _yet_ , a traitorous part of his brain supplies–is beside the point. In all those attempts the Soldier had been facing multiple Avengers, and most of them have superpowers. Right now it’s just the Soldier against Clint Barton. A concussed Clint Barton. A concussed Clint Barton with no bow. No weapons of any kind, actually. Never mind that they’re shackled to opposite walls–the chains seem long enough that they could meet in the middle. And if the Soldier got ahold of him with that silver arm…

Clint shivers, and the shiver turns into a shudder, and soon he is shaking. Distantly he knows it’s something to do with his injury and that he isn’t quaking in fear, but he wonders if maybe there is _some_ fear involved.

“Barton! Fuck, Barton, just breathe, okay? Try to take deep, even breaths.” The voice comes from far away, echoing like someone calling down a well. Funny, he hadn’t thought there could be anything like a well in this place.

Just before Clint falls into unconsciousness he feels metal against his face, cupping his cheek, and he takes a moment to think that the Soldier’s metal hand is a lot warmer than he’d expected.

Then there is only blackness.

Clint floats back to consciousness this time, a leaf caught in the current of a slow-moving stream. The first thing he’s aware of, once he manages to open his eyes, is that he can actually see. The light is dim, just a single lit panel next to what he can now see is a door, but it’s better than the almost complete darkness he’d been in before.

The second thing he’s aware of is that the light doesn’t hurt his eyes. He moves his head experimentally and it’s not the agony he’s expecting. There’s a dull ache in his neck and he can feel a slight bump on the back of his head when he checks with his fingers, but he doesn’t feel any nausea.

“Wondered if you were gonna sleep forever.”

Clint jumps, which, okay, it still doesn’t feel _good_ to hit his head on the floor, but at least he’s not throwing up. He tries to sit up and hey, that actually works out. He looks warily at the Winter Soldier. “Thought maybe I’d hallucinated you.”

“I don’t think you’re quite that lucky. Looks like you can move though, so that’s an improvement.”

“How long was I out?”

“Just over six hours,” the Soldier says, and Clint wonders if whatever knockoff supersoldier serum HYDRA gave him also put a clock in his head. But then the words catch up to him and he sputters with disbelief.

“ _Six hours_? That’s not possible. I feel...well, not _fine_ , but like I’ve been healing for a week. Maybe two. There’s no way I was only out for six hours.”

The Soldier shrugs. “Someone came in after you passed out.” An evasive look flashes across his features, but it’s gone in a fraction of a second. “Gave you an injection of some kind. Looks like it did the trick.”

Clint actually laughs. “I’m no doctor, but I’ve had my share of concussions. You can’t just reverse a head injury like that. It’s...look. The only thing that can take care of a bruised brain is time.”

Waving his metal hand, the Soldier looks at it with a smirk and then back at Clint.

He slumps, momentarily defeated. “Point taken.” Then crosses his arms, unconsciously hugging himself. The thought of something HYDRA created running through his veins makes him itch underneath his skin, even if it did do something to help him. Grasping at the need to change the subject, he says, “So, what’re you in for?”

He means it as a joke–partly, at least–but it doesn’t land that way. It’s as if a steel gate snaps shut between them, and he knows he’s not going to get anything from the Soldier about that. He holds up a hand. “Alright. Not talking about whatever fucked up reason HYDRA locked me up with their most notorious and deadly assassin. Check. Any other topics I should avoid?”

The steel gate opens a crack, but just. “Do we have to talk?”

“They didn’t leave me with anything but my aids, so I think conversation’s all we’ve got to pass the time. Unless you’ve got a deck of cards in your pocket.” He gives the Soldier a hopeful look. It earns him a scowl.

“I’ve got nothing to talk about.”

Clint grins. “I can probably talk enough for both of us.”

After over an hour rambling about feathers versus plastic fletching, the Soldier finally growls, “Enough!” When Clint falls silent he takes a deep breath and the sigh he lets out is saturated with relief. “That’s better. Do you _always_ have to be talking?” he asks.

“Not always,” Clint says, his voice raspy with overuse. “But often. I’ve been told I have a nice voice; don’t you like to listen to it?” He knows he shouldn’t let that thread of wounded pride slip into his voice, but he’s tired and confused and locked in a room with someone who keeps trying to kill his friends. So maybe he gets a break for not being able to control every little thing.

“When you’re giving me an archery lecture? No.”

“You should participate, then. You know, conversation? You talk, then I talk, then you again? Any topic can be applied.”

The Soldier is quiet, but Clint doesn’t interrupt the silence. Finally he says, “I don’t have many opportunities for casual conversation.” His voice is soft, almost sad.

Clint inwardly kicks himself. Of course the Soldier isn’t much of a talker. He’s more of a follow orders kind of guy. Clint’s about to apologize, say he’ll just shut up for a while, when the Soldier says, “I’d like to try.”

Masking his surprise, Clint says evenly, “Oh. Okay.” When the Soldier doesn’t say anything, he adds, “What should we talk about?”

The Soldier looks thoughtful, then says, “Tell me about your life.” Clint must visibly put his defenses up, because the Soldier holds up a hand to mollify him. “I don’t want secrets about Avengers Tower. You don’t have to tell me all about your teammates. Just tell me what it’s like, living with people you care about.”

Something about that statement pierce’s Clint’s heart. This guy really is alone. It’s not like HYDRA goons are gonna sit around and play cards with him, or chat about the latest episode of _Dog Cops_. So Clint starts talking. He talks about staggering onto the common floor in the morning, heading straight for the coffee pot, about Steve and Sam bickering while they make eggs and toast and bacon, about how the team arrives in ones and twos but they all seem to get there to eat breakfast together. Most days, anyway. The Soldier has to be coaxed into joining the conversation, but Clint keeps asking questions and ever so slowly he begins to talk.

“Do you like scrambled eggs? Or bacon?” Clint asks.

The Soldier squints, thinking, as he stares off at nothing. “I don’t...I don’t remember,” he finally says. “I do remember toast, though. It’s best with strawberry jam, but we didn’t have that very often. And if we did, I gave it to…”

Clint desperately wants to ask, _Gave it to who?_ because Clint knows nothing at all about the Soldier, only that he is impossibly old and has been HYDRA’s secret weapon and assassin for decades. He seems to be talking about his life _before_ becoming the Winter Soldier, and Clint had never thought about him as having any kind of a “before”. Like maybe he’d been created in a lab or something. Raised by goons and mad scientists. But maybe he’d been just a regular guy who’d been caught up by HYDRA.

Just like he had.

He can’t hold back his shiver at that thought. He can’t imagine becoming like the Soldier.

“I like strawberries, too,” Clint says, in what he hopes is a close imitation of his normal voice. “Strawberries always say ‘summer’ to me, though. I always feel weird eating them in other seasons.”

“I’d eat a strawberry anytime,” the Soldier says. He sounds almost wistful.

It’s quiet for a few minutes, and Clint’s wondering if he should fill up the silence when the Soldier says, “Tell me more.” Then, quiet and hesitant, “Please.”

Clint doesn’t like that there’s a man under the mask. The Soldier is an enemy, someone to be wary of, to avoid or to attack, depending on the situation. But this...this is a person. And Clint is almost– _almost_ –starting to like him. He already feels sorry for him. And that is dangerous.

But he goes on talking. “When we’re not off Avengering–”

“Don’t you mean _avenging_?” the Soldier interrupts.

“Leave my grammar out of this. When we’re not off _Avengering…_ ” He says the word slowly, one syllable at a time, smirking, “we do normal stuff. Movie nights. Video games. Stacks of pizzas. Enough sandwiches to feed an army. We work out, too–gotta stay in shape to be a superhero.” He grins. “Or even the regular kind, like me. We go to the gym, we spar, we have target practice. We’ve got a great range…”

He trails off, not wanting to give too many details about the inner workings of the Tower. But the Soldier just looks at him. “I’ve never even held a bow,” he says. “Not that I can remember, anyway.”

“You’ve never–” Clint shouts, then he stops, takes a breath. “Of course, you wouldn’t need to, you’re rather talented with firearms.”

“And knives,” the Soldier adds.

“Right. And knives. How could I forget.” Images of the Soldier holding a blade, his near inhuman speed, his deadly accuracy, cross Clint’s mind, flip-flip-flip. He makes a valiant effort and manages to keep the sarcasm from his voice. It’s a near thing.

The Soldier looks at the floor. “I’m very well trained,” he mumbles.

They talk about movies–the Soldier knows he’s been to see movies, but he can’t remember anything about them, so Clint tells him the major plot points of a few of his favorites. They talk about video games, another blank slate for the Soldier. Clint tries to explain Mario Kart, but the Soldier can’t seem to grasp the point, so he gives up after ten minutes or so. In the middle of a rather intense conversation about life with siblings–Clint’s brother, the Soldier’s sister–Clint yawns so big his jaw cracks.

“I think I need to sleep,” Clint says, looking around as if a bed and pillow might magically appear. The room remains empty, so Clint just sighs and sprawls on his back with his hands behind his head. “Whatever they did to heal me, I’m suddenly hitting a wall.” He yawns again. The Soldier watches him, says nothing. Clint takes note of the fact that he apparently isn’t susceptible to the whole ‘yawns are contagious’ thing.

He should be nervous, being so vulnerable just feet away from the Winter Soldier. He should be on edge, unable to rest, let alone sleep. But less than a minute after he closes his eyes he’s asleep. Just before he drifts off he thinks he hears a murmured, “Sleep well,” but he’s probably imagining things.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nausea roils in Clint’s stomach, and he’s suddenly glad there’s no food in his stomach. Mind control. HYDRA’s perfected brainwashing and mind control. He needs to get out of here, he needs to tell…
> 
> But of course it doesn’t matter. Because he’s shackled to the wall across from the fucking Winter Soldier, deep within who knows where surrounded by who knows how many HYDRA goons, and he hasn’t eaten for...how many days now? Even if he could get to his bow, he’s not sure he’d have the strength to draw it.
> 
> In other words, he’s well and truly fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so I have no self-control. Here's chapter two. 💜
> 
> This chapter fits Bucky Barnes Bingo, square C1 - through a scope

“You sure you don’t want to tell me why you’re locked up in here? ‘Cause I’m still half convinced that you’re not actually a prisoner, that you’re just here to get intel from me.” Clint looks the Soldier straight in the eye, not blinking. “I’d return the favor, but I still have holes in my memory.”

The Soldier jerks back at this, and Clint almost crosses the space to comfort the man. He stops himself before he actually moves, though. The Soldier looks shaken, off balance. He sits in perfect stillness for long minutes, then he seems to collapse in on himself. He says something, but his voice is so low and soft that Clint can’t make out any words.

“What’s that?” Clint says.

“I’m always a prisoner.”

Clint is reeling. The Winter Soldier, a prisoner? An _unwilling_ assassin? How does that even work?

“You’re…” Clint shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t really either,” says the Soldier. “But whatever they’ve done to control me, lately I’ve been able to fight it. I know I’ve been alive for a long time, but I don’t actually have many memories of...of anything. Most of my life is just a blur, a haze. But I’m learning to break free of the fog. Sometimes it’s only a moment or two, other times I can willfully disobey. It…” He pauses, breathes once, twice, three times. “It doesn’t go well, disobeying. The punishments are not easy. But maybe it’s worth it.”

Clint holds himself still, but inwardly he shudders. He does not want to even think about what a punishment from HYDRA would be like.

“I think they’re not sure what to do with me. I haven’t been sent on a mission in weeks, but they haven’t put me back–” He stops, a violent shiver going through his whole body. “They haven’t put me back on ice,” he says in a low voice. “I don’t know why. They just locked me up in here. It’s been twenty-seven days now.”

“Twenty-seven... Have I–” Clint stops, unable to get the words out.

“You’ve been here three days,” the Soldier says, an almost reassuring tone to his voice. “You were delirious when they brought you in, calling out for Natasha and Steve and Tony. Then you passed out, and woke up two days later. They came in twice a day to poke at you, but apparently they wanted you to be in pain when you woke up; they could have healed you immediately, but chose to mess with your head instead.”

“But why would they put me with you?” Clint wonders aloud.

“I think they’re hoping I’ll kill you.”

It’s as if all the oxygen is suddenly sucked out of the room; Clint can’t draw a breath and his vision starts to spark and blur around the edges.

And then the Soldier is there–how is he so fast?–holding Clint’s shoulders and shaking him. “Breathe. Fuck, breathe! I’m not going to kill you.”

Clint somehow manages to gasp a breath before his vision blacks out completely. “Why do they think–” he starts, but before he can finish he’s hit by a coughing fit. His body isn’t happy about going without oxygen.

The Soldier sighs; it sounds wrong coming from this deadly man. “They think I’ll kill you because a few months ago you were a mission. You were a mission that I deliberately failed.”

It’s too much.

“You–” Clint stops and takes a deep breath. “Okay, so you were supposed to kill _me_? _**Why**_? I mean, I get HYDRA sending you to kill Steve or Tony or even Bruce. But I’m just a guy with a bow, you know? I’m…” His words fade into nothing because suddenly the Soldier’s words–the _rest_ of the Soldier’s words–have penetrated his brain. Clint looks him straight in the eye and says, “You missed me _on purpose_? You went against HYDRA?”

The Soldier doesn’t break the deliberate eye contact; it suddenly feels warmer in the small cell. “It wasn’t...it wasn’t about you. Not exactly,” he says finally. He sounds almost pained when he adds, “How much do you know about me?”

“Just that you’ve been around practically forever and you’re a particularly deadly assassin for HYDRA.”

They’re still looking at each other intently, each trying to learn something. After a long pause the Soldier lowers his eyes and says, in a voice so low Clint almost misses it, “I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to do any of it.”

Clint lets the words roll around in his head, trying to dissect them. He didn’t want to kill those people? Didn’t want to become feared, a name whispered in the dark? Finally he says, “I don’t–”

“They programmed me. They had this…” He shudders, remembering. “This _chair_. It took away my memories and made me...pliable. Trainable. Imagine the worst thing you’ve ever felt–this was worse. And then they have a list of words, if they read them in the right order I become theirs, perfectly and completely. I obey without thought.”

Nausea roils in Clint’s stomach, and he’s suddenly glad there’s no food in his stomach. Mind control. HYDRA’s perfected brainwashing and mind control. He needs to get out of here, he needs to tell…

But of course it doesn’t matter. Because he’s shackled to the wall across from the fucking Winter Soldier, deep within who knows where surrounded by who knows how many HYDRA goons, and he hasn’t eaten for...how many days now? Even if he could get to his bow, he’s not sure he’d have the strength to draw it.

In other words, he’s well and truly fucked.

A thought breaks through Clint’s melancholy. “But you said you missed me on purpose. How does that work, if they’re in complete control?”

The Soldier grins, and Clint is aware for the first time how close they are. It is another of his not-nice grins. This one says _I could eat you and spit out your bones and it would **not** be the most difficult thing I’ve done today_. He unconsciously leans away. It’s only a fraction of an inch, but he notices, and he sees the Soldier notice too. The grin widens.

“Lately I’ve been able to fight their control. Little bits at first, stopping for coffee on the way to a mission, or taking a long and out of the way route instead of the one I was instructed to take just because I wanted to walk by the river. But missing you, _intentionally_ missing you, that was the biggest thing I’ve ever done.

“It’s what landed me in here, actually.”

Clint flinches.

“It was… Well. It was an interesting thing. You were in my sights, I had a perfect shot. But a thought got through the brainwashing, an independent, original thought at just the right time. It was just this: _What did he ever do to you?_ And I looked at you, big as life through my scope, and you were laughing about something and you just seemed so happy and I thought, _Nothing. He’s never done anything to me._ So instead of shooting you I shot a tree about ten feet to your left. No one was injured, no one even noticed the shot. And I think the tree’ll be okay, it looked like a fairly healthy tree.”

Barely noticing the Soldier’s attempt at humor, Clint says, “Okay. You were supposed to killme? And because I was _laughing–_ ” 

The Soldier heaves an overly dramatic sigh. “It’s not because you were laughing. It’s because my brain decided to shrug off a bit of the brainwashing at what happened to be just the right moment for you. The laughing was just…” He looks at Clint, then shakes his head.

“So,” Clint says, squinting at the Soldier, “you’re not sitting over there waiting for your chance to, I don’t know, throttle me with that arm of yours?”

“Don’t you think if I had full control of this arm I’d have busted us out of here by now? I’ve punched through thick cement walls with this thing before, that door there would be easy as pie. They’ve got it on some kind of lockdown. It works, but only like a normal arm. No super robot powers.” He wiggles the fingers of his metal hand. “I’m certainly clever enough to murder you with just my fingers, but it’s not really my style. Sorry to disappoint you.”

Clint fights the urge to roll his eyes. He’s pretty sure the Soldier’s enhanced abilities include vision, and he doesn’t want to risk being seen even in the dim light.

“Alright, so you’re kind of on my side. Even if you’ve been killing _other_ people on my side.”

The Soldier glares. “I’m just the weapon. HYDRA pulls the trigger. And it’s only in the past few months I even realized how I was being used.”

Clint raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, I get it. You’re a _killer_ , but not a _murderer_.”

“I–” The Soldier starts, then reconsiders. “That’s acceptable.”

Flashing a lopsided grin, Clint says, “Well, I guess we can be pals then. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and all that. Right?”

They look at each other in the dim light. Neither of them speaks. Clint wonders who will be the first to look away; he’s still wondering when he falls asleep.

A sharp pain in his ribs brings him to violent wakefulness. “Fuck!” he tries to shout, but it’s barely a whisper by the time it comes out of his mouth; the air’s been punched out of his lungs. No, not punched, he realizes, bearily looking around him. Kicked. There’s a HYDRA goon standing over him, pulling back his foot to kick again. Clint’s curled around himself, protecting his stomach and ribs, but he knows it’ll hurt if the goon lands another kick. He squeezes his eyes shut.

The kick never comes.

Instead he hears a thud and a whoosh of breath, and he cracks open his eyes to see the goon on the floor, curled up tighter than Clint himself. 

At first Clint doesn’t understand. And then he looks at the Soldier, who actually grins at him...and then _winks_.

“Soldat, you will be punished” the goon wheezes in Russian, trying to catch his breath.

“Fuck you,” says the Soldier in a lazy voice.

Clint looks from the Soldier to the goon and back again. How could he have done so much damage to the guy with those shackles holding him back? And he’d barely moved! He’s still sitting against the wall, relaxed and grinning that fucking terrifying grin. Clint really hopes he’s never on this guy’s bad side. A small shiver runs up his spine, and he momentarily forgets the pain in his ribs.

The goon glares at the soldier, or as much as he can glare from his position on the floor. From Clint’s vantage point, the guy looks pretty well thrashed. As he’s looking him over, Clint sees something that makes him want to shout. He doesn’t, of course. Nat would murder him herself if he broke training like that. But honestly. These HYDRA guys, they might have a pretty good science thing going, but from what he’s seen, they’re all idiots.

“Hey,” Clint says, nodding to the Soldier. “Can I hit him too? I’m pretty pissed at these guys, and it’s no fair if you have all the fun.” He winks.

The Soldier raises an eyebrow, not knowing quite what’s up but playing along. “Sure. Should I hold him down for you?”

“Nah,” Clint says. “Just don’t let him get away.”

Nodding, the Soldier relaxes into the wall and crosses his arms over his chest.

Clint makes a show of pulling the goon to a sitting position, straightening the guy’s shirt and even patting his cheek before punching him in the gut. “Good enough?” Clint asks the Soldier.

A small shake of the head is all Clint gets in response, so he punches the guy again. “Better?”

“That’ll do.”

Clint shoves the guy as close to the door as he can and then starts yelling. No words, just lots and lots of noise. When their door finally opens Clint says, “You should probably get this guy to bed. He seems pretty sleepy.” He grins.

The two new goons look at the goon on the floor and haul him out without a word, glaring at the Soldier.

“If looks could kill…” Clint says.

“I’ve got a pretty bad track record around here.”

Clint can’t help but laugh.

“Nicely done, by the way.” The Soldier’s comment stops Clint’s laughing short.

“You saw?”

“No one else would have noticed, it was an excellent lift. Stupid of the guy to bring a pen in here.”

An ordinary ball point pen slips from Clint’s sleeve into the palm of his hand. In seconds he’s got it dissected into bits and is straightening the small metal spring that’s inside it to fashion a makeshift lockpick. Less than a minute later his ankles are free of the shackles.

It’s a small thing, being able to stand and walk freely from one side of the cell to the other, to stretch and jump and even cartwheel if he wanted to. It _should_ be a small thing, but it _feels_ monumental. Like Christmas morning, or perching on the safety rail that runs around the observation deck of the Empire State Building.

He looks at the tiny cell again, and decides against the cartwheeling. He’d probably hit a wall. Or the Soldier.

The Soldier. He’s still got the straightened spring in his hand, absentmindedly twirling it between his fingers. He minutely moves toward the man on the floor, then hesitates.

This man, the Winter Soldier, is dangerous. Right now they’ve got a sort of temporary truce, but what happens later? What happens when this whatever it is wears off and he’s ordered to kill Clint or his friends again? What is the better course of action right _now_?

“It’s alright,” the Soldier says, his voice surprisingly soft and...is that _sadness_ Clint hears? “I understand. Next time they come in I’ll hold them off as long as I can, you just run. Run fast. Try not to stop and fight unless you have to. Just run.”

And that settles it for Clint, turns the soft metals into steel in his mind. He resolutely steps forward, crouching at the Soldier’s feet, and begins to pick the lock on his ankle shackle. It’s a trickier lock, but it’s not too long before it clicks.

At first he doesn’t say anything, although Clint hears a small hitch in his breath. After Clint pulls the shackle open and looks up to meet the Soldier’s eye he simply says, “Why?” He sounds truly at a loss.

Clint shrugs, and hedges. “The enemy of my enemy, right?”

“It has to be more than that,” insists the Soldier.

“Maybe,” Clint says. “But that’s my business.”

Clint and the Soldier are sitting against their respective walls, shackles exactly where they belong, the next time the door opens. Their look says, ‘Hey mister HYDRA guy, don’t worry about us. We’re far too tired to cause any trouble.’

Which, of course, is exactly what they’re gonna do.

The Soldier moves so fast it’s almost a blur. Clint nearly forgets his part in the plan just standing there gaping at the incredible speed and strength–not to mention the line of the muscles he can clearly see even under loose, made for agile movement and possible assassination clothing–of the man he’s been sharing a cell with for the past few days. But he pulls himself out of his daze in time to slide the end of his chain into the doorway, stopping the door just before it closes. There’s no keyhole inside, not even a doorknob, and since they don’t know today’s secret knock–yeah, really, these guys are geniuses–to get out they’re going to have to rely on brute strength. Which, Clint thinks as he watches the Soldier wrap a length of chain around a HYDRA goon’s neck, isn’t going to be much of a problem.

The goon’s face is changing colors, from pink to red to something even darker, before Clint snaps out of his trance enough to say, “Hey!” The Soldier looks up, not loosening the chain. “You don’t need to kill him,” Clint says, trying to keep his voice steady and calm. “Look at him, he’s just a lackey. And isn’t it time you chose these things for yourself? Killing is what HYDRA made you do. Is it what _you_ want to do?”

The Soldier drops the chain. He looks from the goon to Clint and back again. “My choice,” he says.

The goon rubs a hand all over his neck, soothing himself. “Thank you,” he rasps, his voice harsh from his swollen throat. “Oh, thank you.”

But in the midst of his simpering he pulls his other hand out of his pocket and–of course–he’s got a syringe. Before he can do anything with it, the Soldier punches him square in the face, sending him flying straight into the opposite wall, where he slumps down onto the floor.

The Soldier looks at Clint, an eyebrow raised. “Alright then,” Clint says.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You think it’s important?” Clint asks.
> 
> The Soldier actually does growl. “We need to _move_. The chances of being caught grow exponentially every second we stand out in the open.”
> 
> Clint nods and follows without another word. He follows because the Soldier had just echoed his inner thoughts. Because they need to get out of the open and under some cover. _Not_ because he’s not ready to say goodbye to that pretty face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished another chapter! That means I get to share another one with you! 💜
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and kudos, they mean the world to me!!
> 
> Lira 🏹

Their escape is easier than anticipated.

Neither of them would call it _easy_ , by any standards, but since they get out without any broken bones or gunshot wounds Clint figures it has to be called a successful escape attempt. There were HYDRA goons everywhere, of course, and some of them had even been almost threatening, but the Soldier has a map of the compound in his head and had no problem finding the fastest and least populated route to the outside world.

Which happens to be, ridiculously, in a fairly populated area of Buffalo, New York.

Fairly populated for Buffalo, anyway.

Clint looks at the Soldier. “I’ve been asked to believe a lot of things in the past few days. That you aren’t a threat to me, that HYDRA has some magic potion that cures concussions in a few hours, that HYDRA’s been keeping you as a combination brainwashed prisoner and pet assassin all these years. But a HYDRA base in _Buffalo_? That’s one step too far.”

All he gets in reply is a bland look.

“Okay, _fine_ ,” Clint grumbles. He does a one-eighty, scanning everything around him to get his bearings, and then turns south. “This way,” he says. “I know a place.”

The Soldier grabs his arm. Clint freezes; there are metal fingers wrapped around his bicep. The Soldier isn’t squeezing, isn’t hurting him at all, but he could. Even without the full abilities of the arm, he could.

At Clint’s stillness the Soldier lets go and steps back, all in one smooth motion. There’s something in his eyes… But before Clint has a chance to analyze anything the Soldier is speaking. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to seem threatening. But I need you to come with me. It...it may be important. I have a safehouse nearby. We–” he stops, shakes his head, then continues. “You don’t have to stay. But please, can you trust me one more time?” By the end of his little speech he’s practically growling with frustration.

Mostly what Clint wants is to get off the street; he’s feeling very exposed. His secondary need is for a bow; he and the Soldier had liberated several guns from the goons in the subterranean base–Clint still can’t believe anyone would build a secret base underneath Buffalo–but he won’t feel right until he’s got a bow in his hand again. And he knows there’s one in _his_ safehouse. Which is less than thirty miles away.

But the Soldier has been helping him, protecting him, fighting by his side. It doesn’t feel right to just leave him now.

“You think it’s important?” Clint asks.

The Soldier actually does growl. “We need to _move_. The chances of being caught grow exponentially every second we stand out in the open.”

Clint nods and follows without another word. He follows because the Soldier had just echoed his inner thoughts. Because they need to get out of the open and under some cover. _Not_ because he’s not ready to say goodbye to that pretty face.

The safehouse door is supposed to respond to a signal from the Soldier’s metal arm, but that, of course, was one of the things turned off by HYDRA. The Soldier actually grins at him when Clint asks what the plan is now. “I’m cleverer than I look, you know,” he says, gently maneuvering the cover off the security pad beside the door. It takes less than a minute for him to open the door; he pulls wires apart and twists different wires together and pushes the new combinations against something else that causes a spark and a beep and then the thunk of the bolt releasing. When he opens the door, gesturing Clint through, the Soldier says, “You don’t have to look so surprised, Barton. I may have been brainwashed into doing their bidding, but I could still pay attention to the world around me. I learned stuff.”

Clint feels heat rise to his face and looks away. It’s not like he thought the Soldier wasn’t smart. He’s just always thought of him as tactical rather than technical, and it’s messing with his head to see him like this.

“Come on, we don’t have much time,” the Soldier says, striding past Clint to the main room in the apartment. “If I’m right, they’re already on their way here.”

“ _What_?” The word comes out of Clint in more of a squeak than he’d like to admit, and he’s suddenly glad none of the other Avengers are here. Especially Tasha. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “What? Why did we come here then, if you knew they’d come here first?”

Instead of answering, the Soldier lifts the corner of the coffee table, dropping it with an audible clack; Clint jumps when he sees that the living room wall begin to retract, revealing–

“Damn,” Clint says. It’s an entire lab, full of stuff Tony and Bruce would love to play with.

The Soldier doesn’t slow, goes straight for a small handheld something-or-other, flips it on, and rounds on Clint. “Woah,” says Clint, stepping back and raising his hands in semi-surrender.

“It’s not a weapon,” the Soldier says, sounding weary. “Honestly, if I wanted you dead–” He stops, rubbing a hand across his forehead. “It’s just a scanner.” As if to confirm the Soldier’s words the device he’s holding gives a loud beep. He flashes a grim smile in Clint’s direction. “And this is why we came. Remember the injection they gave you for your concussion? Among other things, it was full of nanobots. Tiny little trackers that are all through your system by now.”

Clint’s stomach drops. “If I’d gone on my own–”

“You’d be back in that cell. Or would be soon.”

“Or worse.” But he doesn’t want to think about that. Swallowing, Clint asks, “Can you...?” He can’t finish.

The Soldier opens a small stainless steel door that turns out to be a refrigerated unit full of vials. He pulls out one, expertly fills a hypo, and turns to Clint. “It’ll take about ten minutes, but this will neutralize all the nanobots.” When he sees Clint’s raised eyebrows he just shrugs. “I told you, I learned stuff.”

Shaking his head, Clint says, “Is my arm okay, or does it need to go into my hip?”

The Soldier doesn’t break eye contact, but Clint thinks he sees the slightest twitch around his eyes when he says, “It will work faster in your hip.”

“Just what I needed,” Clint mutters, turning around and unbuckling his pants. “A shot in the ass.”

It’s a necessary thing, he tells himself. He doesn’t want all of HYDRA: East Coast edition, following him straight to his safe house. But then...does he just imagine it, or does the Soldier take more time than he should to give him the shot? Cleaning the injection site with alcohol, then pausing just a little too long before actually sticking him? Is the Soldier _looking_ at him?

Does he like what he sees?

Clint pushes that thought deep, deep down, pulls his pants back up, and turns back to the Soldier. It’s Clint’s turn to be bold, looking right into the Soldier’s face with a half grin on his lips. “Thanks,” he says. “That sounds so–” He runs his fingers through his hair, ruffling it to full-on bedhead. With a sigh he says, “Anyway, thanks.”

The Soldier nods, and with that he’s all business again. “There’s another room you might like. Follow me.”

There’s a door past the lab and–oh. The Soldier’s right, Clint fucking _loves_ this room. It’s an armory. There’s no bow, but there are plenty of knives and some excellent guns. “None of this is tagged, is it?” Clint is about to strap a pistol to his hip, but he hesitates.

“All their people are tagged, no reason to tag the weapons,” the Soldier says, sliding a knife into a sheath strapped to his ankle.

“And you?”

The Soldier chuckles. “My tracker is in my arm, and I figured out how to turn that off months ago. Although I did scan myself with the handheld out there, just to be sure. I’m clean.”

It seems too much to hope, but Clint asks anyway. “And your arm?”

Patting his pocket, the Soldier says, “I already grabbed the tool kit I need. I’ll fix it at your safehouse.” He looks unsure for the first time since they arrived at the HYDRA safehouse. “If, ah, I’m still invited?”

Clint shrugs. “I can’t just let them grab you, can I? We seem to be doing okay together. For now, anyway.”

His true feelings on the matter are much more complicated: You saved me when you didn’t have to. You stayed with me during the escape even though you could have gotten out much faster on your own. You insisted on bringing me here to knock out the nanobots in my system even when I was too pigheaded to listen.

Your eyes are surprisingly kind.

But he can’t say any of that, so he just shrugs again. “I owe you a shower at least. And one good night of sleep. For the anti-nano shot.”

The Soldier looks like he’s going to argue, but just gives his head a little shake. His hair does a thing. A thing that does _not_ catch Clint’s eye.

Clint really needs that night of good sleep too. His brain is clearly running in odd directions. Without his permission.

“Alright,” the Soldier says, interrupting Clint’s thoughts. He can’t tell if the Soldier sounds relieved, or weary, or some odd combination of the two.

They finish arming up in silence.

After they walk about a mile in the wrong direction, munching on stale protein bars they’d found in the HYDRA safehouse, Clint steals a car.

The Soldier raises an eyebrow. In a flat, non-accusatory voice he asks, “Aren’t you one of the good guys?”

Clint’s cheeks flush; it feels almost like a slap. “I’ll make sure it’s returned to the owner, and with a hefty rental fee.” He sighs, an exhausted, pained sigh. “But my safehouse is nearly thirty miles away, and after however many days of captivity with no food–one crappy protein bar notwithstanding–I don’t think I have that much walking in me. Plus we’re pretty conspicuous, don’t you think? Two big dudes dressed in black toting heavy weaponry, one with a pretty silver arm? And sure, you could probably carry me, but we’d be even _more_ eye-catching that way.”

He tries not to think about what it would be like to be carried by the Soldier. He really tries. But his overtaxed brain is done listening to his threats and now is just doing its own thing. He remembers metal fingers wrapped around his arm…

Snapping himself back to the moment he says, “So. The car. Driving is the only way, really, if we want to get out of here alive.”

The Soldier just looks at him over the roof of the car. It feels like an examination, like he’s trying to figure Clint out. Clint forces himself to stand still and look back, even though he wants to squirm, to look anywhere else. Finally the Soldier just gets into the passenger side, says, “Alright.”

“Alright!” Clint echoes, with rather more enthusiasm.

After ten miles of silence–Clint is too tired to even attempt conversation–the Soldier says, “How’d you learn to steal a car?”

Clint grins. “Haven’t always been the sweet angel you know and love.”

The Soldier actually snorts. “It’s usually the ones who look like angels you have to look out for. Stevie–”

Clint is sure he was going to say more, but instead he closes his mouth so hard Clint can hear his teeth click together. Clint is once again reminded that the Soldier had a _before_ , that he’d been a regular person once upon a time.

And it makes Clint fucking furious. He stomps on the gas pedal, weaving around the few cars on this part of the road until he gets to a turnoff, glad they’re out of the city and onto a two-lane highway now. The Soldier looks mildly curious but not overly concerned; he obviously knows they haven’t gone thirty miles yet so he just lets Clint go when he throws the car into park, bursts out, and slams the door.

He runs into the woods, screaming in his head. He wants to rant and rail out loud but if this guy is anything like Steve he’ll be able to hear every word even inside the car, even from fifty yards away, and Clint wants to keep this to himself. So the words just bounce around in his brain, giving him a headache. Some of the pain leaks out his eyes, but he ignores that.

It’s not fucking fair. To take a regular guy and turn him into an assassin, a sometimes mindless killer, a brainwashed empty vessel doing whatever he’s told...He’d been a guy with a life, with a family and friends. And they just wiped that all away, like it was _nothing_. Just because they could. Just because they were the ones with the power.

He doesn’t even realize he’s throwing the knives until he hears a voice behind him.

“Nice throw. I’m better, of course, but not bad. For an archer.”

Clint whirls around, and he knows he must look like a wild-eyed lunatic, but the Soldier’s stance is calm, relaxed. He’s even got the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Are...are you...fuck, are you _teasing_ me?”

The Soldier flashes an innocent look. “I’d never.”

The anger slips away and soon he’s laughing, laughing so hard he has to sit down in the crackling leaves and rust colored pine needles strewn across the forest floor. Soon he’s sprawled on his back, the scent of earth and decay filling his nose, and there’s something inside him, something warm in his chest; it takes nearly a minute puzzling out what it could be because it’s been awhile since he truly felt this particular feeling.

He’s happy.

He’s on the run from HYDRA with the Winter Soldier, he has no idea how he got into this situation, he doesn’t know where the other Avengers are or if they’re safe...and he’s _happy_.

The Soldier stands over him, hands behind his back. At ease, Clint thinks, and wonders if he actually _was_ a soldier once, a real soldier, not this mockery of one HYDRA created.

“If I’d known having your abilities questioned would create this level of amusement I might have tried it sooner.”

“I’m not–” Clint tries, but he’s still laughing too hard. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself, catches a glimpse of the almost smirk on the Soldier’s face, and starts giggling again.

Is that–did Clint catch the Soldier stopping himself from _rolling his eyes_?

Priceless.

Clint finally manages to stop the laughter. Mostly. But he’s still got that happy feeling inside, so when the Soldier offers his hand to pull Clint to his feet, Clint takes it and pulls, hard; the Soldier is relaxed enough that he’s taken off guard and is pulled down onto the ground beside Clint.

What comes next happens so fast Clint can’t even catalog the events. One moment he’s laughing, the Soldier next to him on the ground, their hands still clasped. He’s thinking things are pretty good considering the fucked up situation they’re in. Less than a breath later he’s still on the ground but the Soldier is on top of him, one knee beside him and another digging into his chest, and there’s a metal hand gripping his throat. Not cutting off his air, but tight enough to be a threat. A warning.

Clint freezes. He may be a human disaster but he knows when to make himself as non-threatening as possible. “Hey,” he says. It’s a little choked and gravelly, but it’s mostly the voice he uses when he’s talking to scared kids. He doesn’t know what else to try. “Hey. I was just playin’. I didn’t mean to startle you.” The eyes looking into his are the same steely blue, but the soft edge, the kindness, is gone. This is all Winter Soldier.

“Hey,” he says again, softer this time. “It’s just me. Just Clint. Remember?”

The Soldier blinks several times and looks confused, like he’s waking up from a long sleep. “Clint?” he says, and he sounds far away. Lost.

Breathing a relieved sigh, Clint says, “Yeah. It’s me. You okay?”

In that moment the Soldier seems to realize where he is and what he’s doing. He springs off of Clint, almost like he’s thrown backwards. His face is a mask of horror; he keeps clenching and unclenching his metal hand as if trying to make sure it still obeys his commands.

“I–” he starts, but can’t seem to find any other words.

“It’s alright,” Clint says. He desperately wants to rub his throat, but knows that will spook the Soldier even more. He settles for saying, “It was my fault. I should have known that was a bad idea.”

“But I shouldn’t–” He pounds his fist into his leg, unable to give voice to his frustrations.

“Hey,” Clint says, again using his soothing, scared-kid voice. “It’s over, okay? Maybe we should just keep going. I think maybe we both just need to be somewhere safe.”

The Soldier doesn’t answer; no words, no nod or headshake to indicate his thoughts. He just turns and walks back to the car, eyes straight ahead, posture perfect.

Clint is slower to get to his feet, still a bit wobbly from the rollercoaster of emotions he’s been riding for the past three minutes. Not to mention the past few days. He retrieves his knives from the tree he’d been throwing them at a few minutes before and makes his own way back to the car.

The soldier’s sitting in the passenger seat, ramrod straight. But Clint feels like it’s at least a partial win; part of him thought he might have decided to split.

I’ll take what I can get, he thinks. Part of him wonders why it means so much to him, keeping the Winter Soldier with him, but since he doesn’t have an answer he ignores that bit of his brain. That sounds like future Clint’s problem.

It feels like the last twenty miles take about twenty years. Twice he almost pulls over and asks the Soldier to drive, but since he’s the only one who knows where the safehouse is, and since it’s quite literally in the middle of nowhere, he decides it’s better if he keeps driving. He’s beyond exhausted, and if he didn’t have the steering wheel keeping him awake he’d be asleep in about half a second.

It’s not working this way, though, with the Soldier just staring straight ahead. After a few miles Clint finally says, “You can’t do this to me, man. I’m fallin’ asleep here. I know you’re not the world’s greatest conversationalist, but if you don’t talk to me I’m gonna fall asleep and crash the car and we’ll never get to the food and shower and comfy beds.”

The Soldier’s sigh is soft, but Clint picks up on the ‘this isn’t what I signed up for’ note in it. “What do you want to hear?” he asks, as if bracing for impact.

“Tell me about…” Clint’s too tired to think of anything very interesting. He doesn’t want to ask about his life as the Soldier, too many land mines there. Then he has an idea. “Hey, you had a little sister, right?”

There’s actually a small smile on the Soldier’s face when he answers. “Yeah. Becca.”

“Did you ever tell her stories?”

He outright laughs at that. “All the time. Ma worked so hard, takin’ care of us, I was always the one Becca came to for stories. ‘Another, another!’ she’d shout in that sweet little voice of hers, bouncin’ on the bed. So I’d start another, and to keep her still I’d turn her around and brush and braid her hair.” He runs his fingers through his own shoulder-length hair as he talks. Clint doesn’t think he’s even aware he’s doing it, he’s so lost in the past.

Clint doesn’t want to interrupt, but the Soldier isn’t talking anymore, just remembering, and he really needs _out loud_ words to stay awake. So he says softly, “Tell me a story?”

The Soldier starts, eyes flicking nervously to Clint. “A _story_?”

“You just said you told lots of them to Becca. This way you don’t have to be chatty, you just have to tell the story like you told it to her. You can even close your eyes and pretend you’re talking to her, if you’d like.”

“But I don’t even–”

“What was Becca’s favorite?” Clint interrupts.

The Soldier smiles, soft and sad. “Beauty and the Beast.”

“Then tell me Beauty and the Beast.”

“But you already know–”

“Doesn’t matter. This one’ll be yours.”

So as Clint drives the Soldier talks, telling of the young woman with two sisters and a merchant father who loses everything and has to move away from the city to start over in the country. Of the beast in the castle, alone and sad, hiding away from humanity. Of how the merchant stumbles upon the castle, angers the beast, and offers his daughter to save his own life. Of the bravery of the daughter, and the redemptive power of friendship and love.

Clint’s heard the story a dozen times or more, seen several movie versions, even read a few book adaptations. (Hey, sometimes after a mission he needs to sink into something that isn’t at all battle-related. Fairy tales are good for that. Not that he’d share that information with his teammates; some things don’t need to be shared.) But this one, as he’d guessed it would be, is unique. The Soldier spends a lot of time on the Beast, on the sins of his past and the penance he owes. He’s harsh in his treatment of the merchant’s cowardice and extorts Beauty’s bravery. And the ending is slightly different–before Beauty can confess her love to the Beast, she first has to convince him that he’s worthy of love, and of redemption.

It’s one of the most beautiful things Clint’s ever heard. He’s so enchanted he misses the turnoff for the safehouse and has to turn around, blushing furiously. But he’s too exhausted to be embarrassed. He just wants to hear the rest of the story.

The Soldier finishes just as Clint parks their stolen car under a sprawling oak tree next to a small, tidy cabin.

“Good timing,” Clint says into the silence. “Welcome home.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looks at the room again, feels his heart quicken and his palms sweat.
> 
> There’s only one bed.
> 
> Last time he’d used this place he’d been with Nat. He generally didn’t mind sharing a bed with her, but sometimes she didn’t like to be touched, and sometimes he woke up thrashing with nightmares. So when they got here and found two big beds waiting, they’d both breathed a little easier. He’d had no reason to think the furniture would be any different this time around.
> 
> But it’s right there in front of him, clear as anything.
> 
> There’s really only one bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Bingo fill!!
> 
> Bucky Barnes Bingo, square Y4 - bedsharing

The position of the sun tells them it’s early afternoon but Clint still feels like he could crawl into bed and sleep for twelve hours. Or possibly twelve days. But he knows they need fuel first, and showers, so he pulls himself out of the driver’s seat and forces himself to get moving, to do the things that need to be done so the two of them can safely collapse.

The only luggage they have is their weapons, so moving in only takes one trip. While the Soldier stands in the main room, a combination living room/dining room/kitchen, taking it all in, Clint does a quick check of the security system. It all looks good, the sensors on the perimeter of the property, the alarms on the house, all of it. He relaxes a bit; Stark may be arrogant as hell, but his tech is tough to beat. Most of the time it’s impossible to beat.

“Everything looks good to go,” Clint says, motioning at the security panel beside the door. The Soldier may not know what all the blips and switches mean without studying the schematics, but Clint knows he’ll understand at a glimpse that all the lights are green. Green is good.

There’s a large pantry just off the kitchen, the size of a small bedroom, and it’s fully stocked with dry goods and canned goods and even treats like chips and chocolate peanut butter granola bars. A deep freeze holds different kinds of meat, enough for several weeks. Clint glances at the Soldier and then amends the estimate. Weeks for two normal men. Maybe a week and a half for a normal man and a supersoldier. “They must have stocked this place up recently, it looks pretty good. There’s even some bottled water and a few juices in the fridge. And, oh!” He’s so happy a choked sob escapes his mouth before he can control it.

The Soldier is beside him with a knife in his hand before Clint can say anything more. “I’m fine!” Clint’s laughing now, though his eyes are still wet with unshed tears. “Look!” Clint reverently pulls the can of coffee off the shelf, showing it to the Soldier.

The Soldier’s eyes flick between Clint and the coffee and back again. “You’re crying about...coffee.”

“Coffee,” says Clint, in his most serious voice, “is the best thing to grow from the soil of planet Earth. There is no contest. I’ve traveled all over this lovely–if flawed–planet of ours, and you can trust me, Mister Winter Soldier. There is nothing better than coffee out there. Anywhere.”

The Soldier’s face doesn’t change. When Clint finishes, he says simply, “Dramatic much?”

Clint just sputters, unable to think of an appropriate comeback. Dramatic? _Him_? Well, okay, _yeah_ , but is it necessary to point it out?

Finally he just gives the Soldier a mock glare and says, “If you don’t want any, fine. More for me.”

One eyebrow arched, the Soldier says, “You’re making coffee _now_? I thought you planned to sleep?”

Clint grins. “My veins run more coffee than blood. I could drink three pots and still fall asleep with no trouble.”

The Soldier’s look clearly says, ‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’ He climbs onto one of the stools at the kitchen’s small breakfast bar. He almost looks comfortable.

“Food, showers, then sleep. We both need all three. I know you’re all supersoldier, but even enhanced humans need to eat, and rest. And trust me buddy, you need a shower.” The Soldier sniffs at himself, makes a face, and Clint laughs. “I just call ‘em like I see ‘em. Or smell ‘em, whatever. We don’t have any eggs, but I did see some syrup. How about pancakes and bacon? And sausage, I think, for a growing supersoldier. There’s a bottle of apple juice in there too. And coffee of course, to round out the meal.”

The Soldier looks a bit turned about by the change of topic but he just nods. Then, as if he feels the need to say something, he adds, “That sounds...good.”

Clint’s already at work, whipping up the pancake mix and heating up the griddle, throwing the meat from the freezer into the microwave to defrost. His back is to the Soldier, but he smiles nonetheless, feeling like he’s making some kind of progress with the taciturn man. He still doesn’t understand why he _wants_ to, why he feels like he _needs_ to, but he shoves the thought away again. Right now, food.

It doesn’t take long to prepare the meal–the main reason Clint chose it–and soon they’re too busy eating to talk. Clint’s first mouthful of coffee is too watery and tastes a little burnt and is still the best thing he’s ever tasted. He knows the moans he makes at the first gulp are nearly obscene–the Soldier gives him an interesting look–but Clint doesn’t care. It’s _coffee_. It’s too important to care about anything else at the moment. Even bright blue eyes staring at him over pancakes.

Side by side they shovel pancakes and bacon and sausage into their mouths; Clint tries to remind himself to chew and most of the time succeeds but a few times he has to take a big swallow of juice or coffee to get a bite down. He can’t be bothered to worry about it. He’s practically swallowed slices of pizza whole in the past, he’s pretty sure he’ll be fine.

Too soon they’re through all the food and two pots of coffee. The Soldier, it turns out, isn’t affected by coffee at all, so he keeps up with Clint, cup for cup. No one else does that–Steve probably could, but he mostly just drinks juice. Or water. Clint wonders if this guy’s ever had coffee out of the pot. It could be something new to introduce him to, like MarioKart and 80s movies.

“Showers?” The Soldier asks, and Clint can hear the hint of hesitation in his voice.

“You can go first,” Clint says. “While you’re getting cleaned up I’ll find you some clothes to put on; I’ve stayed here before, so I know some of mine are here...somewhere. They’ll be big on you–long in the arm and leg–but that can’t be helped. And it’s better than putting dirty clothes back on, yeah? Too big sweats aren’t that bad anyway. Cozy.” He cocks his head a bit, gives the Soldier an appraising look. “And I bet,” he says slowly, “it’s been a long time since you wore something cozy.”

The Soldier holds his gaze for ten seconds. Twenty. Then he looks away, says, “Not since...before.”

Clint’s heart breaks a little. He’s not angry this time, just sad. Decades of only functional, rough combat gear. Clint vows to give him the softest clothes he can find.

“You saw the bathroom when we got here,” Clint says, waving. “Other door’s the bedroom. The big cabinet in there’s full of towels, plus shaving cream, razors, deodorant, toothbrushes and toothpaste, that kind of stuff. Soap and shampoo is in the shower. I’m sure you can figure it out. You okay with coming out in the towel and getting dressed in the bedroom? Otherwise I can put your clothes on the floor outside the–”

“It’s _fine_ , Barton.” The exasperated tone is back, but there’s a thread of teasing too, underneath.

“Right,” Clint says. “Then go already, that shower’s calling my name.”

“Clint, oh Clint,” the Soldier says in a squeaky, high-pitched voice.

Clint almost falls off the stool laughing. Will the Soldier ever stop surprising him?

When the shower’s running Clint drags himself off the floor to find some clothes for the two of them. He’s scrubbing his face with his hands, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes and convince his body to stay awake for just a little bit longer when he pushes the bedroom door open and finds the latest surprise of the day.

“Oh, _fuck_.”

He hears the shower faucet squeak as it's turned off and the Soldier yells, “Barton? You alright out there?”

Damn that supersoldier hearing. “It’s fine. I was just startled by something is all. Go back to your shower, you need it pal.”

The shower turns on without another word, although Clint can imagine the faces being pulled.

He looks at the room again, feels his heart quicken and his palms sweat.

There’s only one bed.

Last time he’d used this place he’d been with Nat. He generally didn’t mind sharing a bed with her, but sometimes she didn’t like to be touched, and sometimes he woke up thrashing with nightmares. So when they got here and found two big beds waiting, they’d both breathed a little easier. He’d had no reason to think the furniture would be any different this time around.

But it’s right there in front of him, clear as anything.

There’s really only one bed.

Clint forces his brain to focus on the task at hand– _find clothes, find nice, soft, clothes_ –and to ignore the sleeping situation. He tries, anyway. He’s digging in the dresser and finds boxers and boxer briefs–he figures the Soldier can choose his own underwear at least–two pairs of sweatpants, two t-shirts, and two soft, worn hoodies. But even as he’s pulling out clothes his head keeps turning to the bed. _The_ bed.

The bed he’s going to be sleeping in in less than an hour.

With the Winter fucking Soldier.

He folds the clothes neatly and fans them out on the bed. He’s got good timing; just as he finishes the tap squeaks off for a second time, and he can hear the Soldier climb out of the shower.

He looks at the bed, scratching at his scalp. How’s he gonna explain this?

But it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s not like he can build a bed in the next two minutes. He trudges out to the living room to wait on the sofa.

When the Soldier comes out of the bathroom, hair still dripping onto his naked shoulders, lightly bronzed skin glistening with droplets of water...Clint tries to stop him before he goes into the bedroom, he really does. He opens his mouth to say, ‘Hey, so I really thought there were two beds in this house, but turns out one of them’s been taken away since the last time I was here. Weird, right?’ But all that comes out is a kind of inaudible moan or breathy squeak or _something_ that basically means ‘ _holy fuck_ you made my brain stop working.’

The Soldier just looks at him, clearly decides he’s not going to say anything, then heads into the bedroom.

He stops in the doorway. “Barton,” he says slowly, enunciating every letter.

Clint’s mind and body finally figure out how to work together again, and he pulls himself off the sofa to stand in the doorway beside the Soldier. Blue eyes peer into him, and Clint again wonders if the Soldier can see deeper than anyone else.

“Last time I was here there were two beds,” he says simply. “No idea what happened. My best guess is Tony, he’s pretty good at breaking things. But really it could have been anyone. Anything.”

The Soldier looks from the bed to the tiny sofa and back again, and Clint swears there is actual _longing_ on his face. “I’ll...sleep on the sofa,” he says, dejected.

“You will not,” Clint says. “It’s barely big enough for two people to sit side by side. You try to sleep on that you’ll wake up tied in a knot.”

“The floor then.” His face is unreadable, inscrutable, and Clint has the sudden urge to grab him by the shoulders and try to shake some sense into him. Not that he’d ever try anything with the Winter Soldier, he’s not suicidal. But he’s going mad here.

Clint practically growls at him. “Don’t be an idiot. That’s a king size bed. Plenty big for even the two of us. I’ve been sleeping on the floor for days, you’ve been sleeping on the floor for I don’t even know how long. So shut your fucking mouth, put on your comfy clothes, and deal with the only one bed thing!” By somewhere in the middle he started to lose his shit, and by the end he’s shouting, actually yelling at the Winter Soldier. 

Oh fuck. Again.

He half expects a punch, or the feel of metal squeezing his breath away again, but it never comes. The Soldier just heaves a sigh and takes the last step into the bedroom, closing the door in Clint’s semi-stunned face.

Clint stands there for half a minute or so, staring at the grain of the door just a few inches past the end of his nose. Then he grins. “Good. That’s all settled then,” he says. He hears a grumpy “hmmph” from the other side of the door, and he can’t help but laugh. It’s mostly in relief though. He just yelled at the Winter Soldier, right to his face, and he’s still alive. Hell, he’s _uninjured_. He should celebrate.

Instead he takes a shower. Which, really, feels like a celebration in itself.

Of course, when he’s toweling himself dry afterwards, scrubbing the dampness out of his hair, he realizes _he_ didn’t bring clothes into the bathroom either.

Oops.

Oh well. They’re gonna be sharing a room, even sharing a bed. And the Soldier’s already seen his naked ass. If he can’t handle a glimpse of Clint getting dressed, that’s his own problem.

It doesn’t matter anyway, when he comes out of the bathroom, towel wrapped tight around his waist, the Soldier is on the sofa, bare feet propped up on the coffee table, the long arms of Clint’s purple hoodie almost covering his metal hand. Only the tips of his fingers poke out. He glances up and sees Clint and freezes, a faint pink rising on his cheeks.

“Forgot my clothes,” Clint says, feeling the flush on his own face. And chest. Huh, he’d never realized he could blush so...extensively. And now he wishes he’d never had this particular opportunity to learn.

“I noticed,” the Soldier says. And did his voice catch when he said that? Nah. Clint’s just tired.

“Yeah. Uh, look. I was gonna get dressed and try to unwind a little, maybe watch some tv or something, but I’m beat. I’m just gonna fall into bed, alright?”

The Soldier looks alarmed.

“Don’t have a heart attack, I won’t sleep _naked_.” He’ll be close, in just his boxers, but he doesn’t say that. The Soldier relaxes.

“So. Uh. G’night.” It’s awkward saying good night to someone who will be joining you in your bed, but it would be rude to just turn around and walk into the bedroom. So what the hell, awkward it is.

He’s awake and alert enough–barely–to make sure the security system is still showing all green. Then he slips into the bedroom, steps into his boxers, drops his towel to the floor, and tosses the folded clothes onto the top of the dresser for tomorrow. Before he falls onto the bed he wakes up enough to remember to take out his aids and put them on the table beside the bed, and to pull the covers back. His head slams into the pillow, he tucks himself under the blankets, and he’s asleep before he can wonder if the Soldier will actually sleep in the bed.

Clint wakes up some time later–it’s not night yet, but close; the light peeking around the window blinds is a reddish gold–his mouth dry and his body crying out for water. He stumbles to the kitchen, grabs two bottles, opens one, and begins drinking as he’s walking back to the bedroom.

He nearly chokes when he sees the Soldier, still sitting on the sofa. Still in the same position, mostly. This time he’s looking away, deliberately avoiding eye contact.

“Look,” Clint says. “This is getting ridiculous. I know you’re all ‘enhanced’ and everything, but I know a supersoldier too, and he needs sleep just like us ordinary mortals. So just get your ass into bed, dracula. It’s not going to, I don’t know, reduce your man-ness or whatever.” He stops for breath, then adds, “And if you decide you’re gonna argue instead of just going to bed, you gotta look at me. I left my aids in the bedroom.”

The Soldier brushes back the curtain of hair hiding his face, looks up at Clint, then says, “Dracula?”

“Yeah. You know, all dark and brooding? Plus you seem to think you should stay up all night.”

The Soldier stares, and stares. Clint is woozy with exhaustion, swaying on his feet, but he’s not going to back down this time. For some reason he doesn’t quite understand he’s determined to mother hen this chick. Or something like that. He’s not thinking terribly straight at the moment.

He squints at the Soldier, at the way his hair brushes against his shoulders, at the line of his jaw, at the blue of his eyes, and wonders if “not straight” is an adequate description.

Stop it, Clint’s brain. You’re overtired. Now is not the time to look at the pretty Soldier. Now you just need to get him into bed.

But he’s not moving, still just sitting there staring at wobbly Clint, and Clint just can’t take it anymore. “Come on!” he shouts. Well, he means to shout. He’s still mostly asleep, and that includes his voice, so it’s kind of a raspy something or other. But it startles the Soldier into movement, of a kind. He stands, but makes no move toward the bedroom. He’s still looking at Clint like he doesn’t know what to do, so Clint just yells again. “Come on!” This time he drops the water bottles, grabs the man’s hand, and drags him towards the bedroom.

The hand in his is soft, and warm, and even as sleepy as he is he’s faintly surprised that it returns his tight grip. He turns around and smiles a tired smile, says, “See, it’s not so bad,” and he actually gets the hint of a smile in return.

It’s not much, but he’ll take it.

He points at the Soldier’s side of the bed. “Bed. Sleep. Now.” Apparently his brain is done being eloquent.

“Yes sir,” the Soldier says. Clint can’t hear him, but he just knows he’s being mocked.

“Just for that I’m gonna put my cold feet on you.”

The Soldier glares. “You just try it. We’ll see how you like sleeping on the floor.”

Clint giggles as he climbs into bed. He feels the Soldier’s weight settle on the other side of the bed, but he’s asleep before he can even think about trying to touch the other man with his feet.

_He’s in the circus, this time in a tumbling act. Leaping, twirling, spinning. He loves the cheering crowd, the gasps when it looks like he’s going to miss his grip, the thunderous applause when he sticks a landing and takes a silly bow. And then he’s got his bow in his hand, still tumbling, still wearing his purple spandex and silver sequins but now he’s shooting aliens while he leaps, and they’re everywhere, and he knows he can’t miss, that it’s very important that he doesn’t miss. His friends, his family, they’re depending on him._

_But something lands on him. Something heavy. Its arms are wrapped around his chest; he can’t see what it is but it doesn’t matter because he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t–_

When he opens his eyes it’s dark, so dark he can barely see. The dream is gone, sinking away to wherever dreams go when we wake–all but the heavy feeling on his chest. He pulls a deep breath into his lungs and realizes he can breathe, it’s just difficult because the Soldier’s head is on his chest.

The Soldier’s head. Is on. His Chest.

His brain is still trying to wrap itself around that unimaginable piece of information when the rest of his body takes stock.

The Soldier is cuddled up under Clint’s arm, his own arm and head and much of his upper body draped over Clint’s torso. He’s got a leg thrown over Clint’s legs too. This guy is a complete octopus when he sleeps, and it’s warm and cozy and it takes every bit of Clint’s willpower to keep from moving the fraction of an inch it would take to kiss the top of his head.

Clint doesn’t want to move. He has to keep breathing, but beyond that he’s determined to just _be_. Because after everything that’s happened, after the roller coaster of terror and pain and adrenaline and hunger and exhaustion this, right here, is exactly where he likes the Winter Soldier. Pressed up against his body, skin sticky from shared body heat, breath raising goose bumps on his chest, hair smelling faintly of strawberries from the safehouse’s only shampoo.

And held firmly, tightly, in his arms.

Is this what he’s been pointedly not thinking of since he first realized who was shackled to the other wall of his cell? Is this what his brain’s been shying away from?

God, he wants to kiss him. He wants to wake him up and kiss him and...he can feel the body pressed up against him, and he’d seen the naked, glistening chest earlier, and he suddenly knows there’s a lot more he wants to do with the Winter Soldier.

He can’t, of course.

The Soldier moved here in his sleep, had no idea what he was doing, just gravitated to the nearest warm body and latched on. It might be he doesn’t even like guys, and Clint doesn’t want to embarrass him. He’s obviously starved for human contact, it’s not like he got all cuddly with HYDRA goons at night. They probably intentionally kept him at arms length, to make him feel like a weapon instead of a person. Great guys, HYDRA.

Clint wishes he could meet them with his bow and an endless supply of arrows. He wouldn’t go for kill shots, either. He’d make it last.

He slows his breath, slows his heart, calming himself back down to near sleeping levels. He wants to stay awake–part of him wants to stay awake all night, just to record as much as he can in his memory–but he’s too tired, and holding the Soldier in his arms makes him feel relaxed in a way...well, he’s sure he’s felt this relaxed at least once before, but right now he can’t actually remember it.

Just before Clint falls asleep, he mouths the words, “You’re safe. I’m here, and you’re safe.” He doesn’t actually speak the words aloud, he doesn’t want to wake the Soldier, but he feels the need to tell him just the same. So he mouths the words and tightens his hold just a fraction, for just a moment, then lets sleep take him again. The Soldier rumbles a response–not a word, just a low sound in his chest, it could even be just a snore–but Clint is fully asleep before he can even wonder if it had been real or just a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today I finished 25k words on this fic, and also finished Part One. I'm so excited to keep sharing this with all of you!!! 💜


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Soldier’s eyeing several long-range rifles, running his hands over them with reverence, when Clint turns his attention to the wall of bows.
> 
> “My babies,” he says. There’s a soft chuckle behind him; he glances over his shoulder to see the Soldier grinning at him; Clint feels his cheeks heat up.
> 
> “Don’t feel bad,” the Soldier says with a wink. “I understand the feelin’.”
> 
> He probably does, Clint realizes, turning back to his bows.
> 
> Taking down his favorite of the three bows stored here, he tests the draw. It pulls his muscles in just the right way, soothes the ache he’s been holding for days and days.
> 
> He refuses to acknowledge the stinging behind his eyes. It’s probably just dust in the air anyway.
> 
> Clearing his throat to be sure there’s no lasting harm from the, uh, _dust_ , Clint says, “We’ve got a bunch of targets and about 15 acres of land out there. Wanna go play?”
> 
> The Soldier hesitates, surprising Clint. And then he surprises Clint again by gesturing toward the wall and asking, “Could you teach me to shoot one of those?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling a little down today, so this is a gift from me to you: the fluffiest fluff. This is my favorite chapter (so far)...because ARCHERY!! (does Lira have a thing for archery? why yes, yes she does.)
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Love,  
> Lira 🏹

A smell pulls Clint from sleep the next time, a familiar smell. A delicious smell.

He’s on his feet and through the bedroom door before he even realizes what it is, but he’s smiling when he says it. “Coffee.” Both syllables are long and drawn out, and Clint is making grabby hands towards the pot.

The Soldier’s standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, giving him a look of mingled amusement and disgust. “Christ, Barton. Can’t you put some clothes on before you have your first cup of the day?”

“Coffee will warm me up,” he says, even though the autumn chill is already seeping through the floor and into his bare feet. “Coffee solves every problem.”

The Soldier huffs and hands him a mug. Clint takes it greedily, drinking out of it before the Soldier’s hand is even completely off the handle. He’s got most of the cup gone in two drinks, finishes the dregs in a third and is holding the mug out to the Soldier for a refill with a slightly more awake smile soon after that. The Soldier’s just standing there, his own mug stalled halfway to his lips, staring.

“What?” Clint gives him his best ‘I’m adorable and I know it’ smile. “Haven’t you ever seen a guy drink a cup of coffee before?”

The Soldier stares for another five seconds, then snatches the mug and turns away, setting both mugs down on the counter with a clatter. Without turning back he says, “Put some clothes on. This diner doesn’t serve half naked men.”

For a moment Clint just stands there, dumbfounded. Then he looks around and realizes that yes, the Soldier really did prepare a meal, not just coffee. It must be around lunchtime already, because instead of breakfast food there’s pasta with some kind of light sauce, and sundried tomatoes and maybe–he sniffs–basil? Plus broiled chicken and green beans and even rolls fresh out of the oven. How had he missed all these amazing smells? Too caught up in coffee, of course. He has his brain trained.

Or his brain has him trained. Maybe it boils down to the same thing, in the end.

“My compliments to the chef!” Clint says.

The Soldier, still with his back to Clint, says, “You haven’t tasted anything but the coffee.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s all amazing.”

Sighing–has he always sighed this much or does Clint just bring it out of him?–the Soldier says, “Please just go get dressed. I’m hungry. It’s almost noon.”

“Right.” Clint runs back to the bedroom, nearly tripping over the coffee table on the way. He pulls on a pair of sweatpants, pulls a hoodie over his head, sits on the bed to pull on one sock, and then, impatient, puts on the other on his way back to the kitchen, hopping on one foot.

“Better, boss?” he asks. His hoodie is actually backwards, and one leg of his sweatpants is pulled up to his knee, but at least he’s not a breath away from naked anymore.

It’s a good thing the Soldier has good reflexes, because when he turns around and sees Clint he nearly drops the big bowl of pasta. “Maybe try again?” he says. “You’ve got a minute, I’ve still got to get silverware, and butter for the rolls.”

“There’s butter?” Clint yelps as he pulls his hoodie over his head to flip it around and put it on again.

“It was in the freezer. I just had to thaw it a bit. That’s where the rolls were too, easy to throw into the oven and bake, and it’s nice to have fresh bread, don’t you think?”

Clint makes happy affirmative noises, taking a seat at the table. He’d figured they’d sit at the counter again, like yesterday, but the Soldier’s got the table all set. It looks almost fancy; all it really needs is candles or a rose in a vase. Then Clint makes a choking noise–there, in the Soldier’s hand, is a mason jar half full of water and overflowing with purple asters. He sets it in the middle of the table, says in a gruff voice, “I saw ‘em out the window. You were still sleepin’, thought they’d brighten things up a little.”

“Pretty,” Clint says. The Soldier’s eyes are downcast, so he can’t see that Clint isn’t looking at the flowers.

Then Clint comes back to himself, clears his throat, and says, “So, you figured out the security system? I know I can’t hear it when it goes off, but there’s a flasher built in, in case I’m here. Stark’s such a sweetheart that way. Pain in the ass most other ways, but…” He shrugs.

“There’s a basic schematic in one of the kitchen drawers. I was bored.” In other words, you sleep a lot, Barton.

“I never saw any security schematics.”

“That’s because you never looked through all the drawers. All you ever needed to survive here was a spatula and a coffee pot.”

“Hey, that’s not fair! For your information I also desperately need a pizza cutter.”

A snort and an almost grin. “Right.”

The Soldier settles into the chair across from Clint and looks pointedly at the food. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Just being polite.”

Another snort from the Soldier. “This from the man I had to beg to stop drinking from the coffee pot.”

“Well _you’re_ not gonna get sick from my germs, you’ve got that enhanced immune system or whatever. And drinking straight from the pot is a rapturous experience. And besides,” he says, picking up his fork and pointing it at the Soldier for emphasis, “it’s incredibly rude to come between a man and his coffee.”

“So sorry to disrupt so sacred a bond,” the Soldier says. He does not sound sorry.

And suddenly Clint remembers the feel of the Soldier’s head on his chest, the feel of their skin pressed together, their heartbeats mingling in the darkness. He feels the heat rising to his face again so he picks up his mug of coffee to try to hide, but it’s not steaming anymore so he doubts the Soldier, with his better than perfect vision–better than Hawkeye vision?–is fooled.

“Thanks for cooking,” Clint says. There’s no teasing in his voice, no hidden agenda. Only sincerity. “It really does all look amazing.”

The Soldier meets his gaze without flinching; it’s Clint who finally gives in and looks away, down into his coffee mug.

“It’s...odd, the things I can remember. I have no memory of how to cook eggs. I look at an egg and don’t even know how to get to what’s inside without makin’ a big mess. But I remember Ma makin’ pasta. The sauce was always somethin’ new, ‘cause she just put together the things she had. She was incredible, my ma.” He shakes his head, like he’s jumping from the past to the present, and it’s a long, disorienting jump. “There’s a basil plant out back, did you know that? So that’s fresh basil in there.”

Clint’s stomach makes a loud grumble, and that settles things.

“Enough talk,” the Soldier says. “Eat.”

He wants to. He’s going to. But he takes a tiny second to notice how much this feels like a date now that they’re sitting at the table together, face to face, jar of wildflowers between them. He doesn’t know if it was planned that way–probably not–but for the next ten or fifteen minutes he’s going to let himself play pretend. Because he’s had a very rough few days, and every once in a while he deserves good things. Doesn’t he?

Every bite is delicious. The rolls, dripping with melted butter. The green beans, still a bit crispy–must have been frozen rather than canned. The angel hair pasta with a light sun-dried tomato basil sauce, bits of dried tomato exploding with flavor between his teeth. The chicken that practically falls apart in his mouth.

“Don’t know if I should compliment you or you mom,” Clint says when he’s finished the last bite. The actual last bite–when he first noticed the food it had looked like enough to feed the Hulk, but the two of them had polished it all off in not very long at all. Still replenishing lost calories from their confinement, he reckons.

“Ma. It’s all her,” the Soldier says. “I couldn’t do any of this without her. She was clever with food in a way I’ll never be. This is one little thing I can do to honor her. She–” He clears his throat, then looks down at his plate, all scraped clean. “She would have been so disappointed to see how I turned out.”

Clint nearly recoils, but holds himself still somehow. After a pause he says, even and sure, “You’re wrong.”

The Soldier’s eyes snap up “What do you know about my ma?” There’s ice in his eyes.

“I know she loved you,” Clint says simply. “And I know a mother doesn’t look at her son and blame him for _something he didn’t do_.” Usually, he thinks to himself. But that’s a whole different story, for another day maybe. If they even have another day. Besides, this isn’t about him.

“But there were _choices_ ,” he mutters, but he’s not trying to convince Clint. He’s trying to convince himself. 

“Hey,” Clint says, all soft and gentle. There are too many dishes on the table for him to reach across so he gets up, drags his chair until it’s next to the Soldier, then perches on the back of it. “Hey,” he says again, taking the Soldier’s hands in his, balancing their hands on his knees. The Soldier looks up into Clint’s face, into his eyes, waiting.

“Look. I know it feels like your fault. Trust me, I know it better than you think. You feel like you let yourself be taken over because you were weak, because your defenses were down because you were looking the wrong way or aiming at the wrong target. You feel like you should have been able to shout ‘Fuck you!’ into their faces and run away but they’re too quick–in between your thoughts they are already there, telling you what to do. And doing what they say feels good, it feels right, it feels easy. There’s that twinge that tells you it’s _wrong_ , sure, but that doesn’t beat the floaty feeling you get when you do as you’re told.”

The Soldier’s looking at him with something like awe. Clint squeezes his hands.

“It wasn’t your fault. However they caught you up in the beginning, _all those deaths were not your fault_. Remember what you told me before? You were just the weapon, HYDRA pulled the trigger. You can still feel the blood on your hands, and I’m sorry about that. I understand it, I do. But _you didn’t put it there_.”

Clint turns the Soldier’s hands in his own, touching all the fingers, the backs, the palms. Finally he places them on his knees, palms up. “These hands,” he says, looking again into those somehow ageless blue eyes, eyes now bright with unshed tears. “These hands are _clean_.”

They sit in silence for moments that stretch into minutes, trying to find the answers to unspeakable questions in each others’ eyes. Clint finally breaks the spell, smiling and shrugging and pulling his hands away. It’s not what he wants–what he wants is to crush their mouths together and find out what that hair feels like between his fingers. But the Soldier’s too vulnerable now, trying to figure out who he is and who he’s becoming, and Clint doesn’t want to take advantage. He does drop a hand onto the Soldier’s shoulder and squeeze as he walks by, though, wanting him to know he’s not going anywhere.

He starts clearing the table, stacking the dishes on the counter, then fills the sink with soapy water to wash the dishes. For the first few minutes the Soldier just sits where Clint left him, lost in thought. After a bit he wanders over to the sink, picks up a towel, and begins to dry the dishes after Clint washes them.

“Not like you’d be able to put them away anyway,” he says drily.

“I could so!”

“Yeah, you could,” the Soldier relents. “But we’d be here all day, you tryin’ to find the right cupboards and drawers.”

“Brooklyn!” Clint shouts, dropping a bowl in the process and splashing them both with soapy water.

The Soldier looks at him like he’s suddenly speaking a foreign language. 

“You!” Clint says. “You’re from Brooklyn! Your accent comes and goes, and there’s that weird hint of Russian mixed in with it so it was tricky to place, but I finally got it! So weird, we’re neighbors, really, or would have been…”

“What are you talking about?”

Clint shrugs. “It’s all kinda confusing, isn’t it? You haven’t lived there for a long time, right? But if you did…” He shrugs again, a silly grin on his face. “I have rooms at Avengers Tower, sure, but I’ve also got a place of my own in Bed-Stuy. See? Neighbors.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. No, no _maybe_ about it, he really shouldn’t have said that. Because eventually HYDRA’s gonna catch this guy again, right? Or whatever magic that’s letting him be himself is gonna break and he’ll walk right back to them on his own? But he _wants_ to trust him. If he’s honest with himself he wants to take him home and…

And what? Keep him? There’s no way in hell any of the team would let him do that. If they knew where he was, what he was doing…

Nat would hit him over the head. Cognitive recalibration, she’d call it.

He looks at the Soldier, at the concentration on his face while he carefully dries and puts away the dishes. His eyes squint a little when he dries, and he has to stand on his toes to reach the very top shelf.

It’s a good thing Nat isn’t here. She always knows what’s going on in Clint’s head almost before he does, putting all the pieces together before he can.

It’s not just physical attraction. It’s not just the memory of holding the Soldier in his arms, or the almost inhuman strength he showed when they escaped from HYDRA. Clint’s really falling for this guy. He wants to brush back his hair and tell him he’s gonna be okay, that they’ll figure out a way to keep them both safe together, even if it means running. He wants to make him smile, just because he _deserves_ to smile, deserves some happiness after a lifetime of horror. Clint wants to hear him laugh–at anything, really, but mostly at Clint’s stupid jokes. He wants to teach him how to shoot a bow. He wants Thor to teach him how to braid intricate patterns into his hair. And he wants to fall asleep at night holding the Soldier in his arms, whispering in his ear that he’s safe.

Not just one night. Not just two nights.

Every night.

Clint glances up to see the Soldier looking at him, the ghost of a smile on his face. “Slowin’ down there, Barton? I’ve got nothin’ to dry and you’ve got a sink full of dirty dishes.”

Grinning and throwing a sloppy salute, Clint says, “Sorry sir, I’ll get right on that.” And since he’s still got the wet dishcloth in his hands, water sprays everywhere. The Soldier groans and Clint laughs and pretty soon the Soldier is laughing too, and soon it’s a water fight, both of them spotted and dripping. The Soldier’s hair hangs in front of his eyes, plastered to his face, and the sight of it makes Clint start giggling anew. He reaches out and pushes the hair to the side, tucking it behind the Soldier’s ear. There’s a little tingle in his fingertips at the touch.

“You look ridiculous,” he says. His eyes are still laughing.

“You should go look in a mirror.”

“I think our cleanup is going to take a bit longer now.”

The Soldier looks around, then looks pointedly at Clint. “You should remember that next time you decide to start a water fight.”

“Me?! I did no such…”

The Soldier laughs, and Clint’s heart skips.

Later, when the men and the dishes are all dry, Clint says, “Wanna see the armory?”

The Soldier’s face lights up with anticipation. “Did you have to ask?”

Clint’s been itching to get his hands on a bow since...well, since he woke up shackled to a wall. And while his best bows are at home and at the Tower, Tony makes sure there’s at least one decent bow at every safehouse Clint knows about. Because what’s the point of a safehouse if it doesn’t come with his go-to weapon?

He has to crawl around on the floor to find the right board and press on the correct two corners, but when he does a panel falls away, revealing a hidden staircase. He gestures for the Soldier to go first. “Be my guest,” he says with a smile.

It’s not as fancy as the armory in the HYDRA safehouse, not all bright glowing walls and creepy red octopus symbols...but to Clint, it feels like home. The weapons are racked just like in every other joint SHIELD/Avenger safehouse, so his hands can find the things he’s looking for without much effort. There are lockers on the far wall with tac-gear, even a shelf of boots. There’s a low bench and a fully stocked first aid station, and several heavy duty packs for carrying gear–plus any and all the random “gear” you could need.

The Soldier’s eyeing several long-range rifles, running his hands over them with reverence, when Clint turns his attention to the wall of bows.

“My babies,” he says. There’s a soft chuckle behind him; he glances over his shoulder to see the Soldier grinning at him; Clint feels his cheeks heat up.

“Don’t feel bad,” the Soldier says with a wink. “I understand the feelin’.”

He probably does, Clint realizes, turning back to his bows.

Taking down his favorite of the three bows stored here, he tests the draw. It pulls his muscles in just the right way, soothes the ache he’s been holding for days and days.

He refuses to acknowledge the stinging behind his eyes. It’s probably just dust in the air anyway.

Clearing his throat to be sure there’s no lasting harm from the, uh, _dust_ , Clint says, “We’ve got a bunch of targets and about 15 acres of land out there. Wanna go play?”

The Soldier hesitates, surprising Clint. And then he surprises Clint again by gesturing toward the wall and asking, “Could you teach me to shoot one of those?”

Clint’s been volunteering his services to teach archery to kids at a local rec center for several years now. Most come for the thrill of meeting an Avenger–even a boring one like Clint–but some find a love or a talent, or both, and stay. So he’s no stranger to teaching a complete novice how to hold a bow, how to stand, how to breathe, how to nock an arrow so the fletching is facing the right direction, how to draw the bow back just so, how to aim, how to release with your breath.

But he’s completely unprepared to teach the Winter Soldier anything at all.

To begin with, he realizes right away that he’s going to be telling this man, this paragon of strength and aim and… He shakes his head. Okay that’s enough, Clint’s brain. We get it. He’s pretty great. Anyway, he realizes he’s going to be telling the Soldier what to do. Where to put his hands, how to turn his body. And the best way to do that is to stand nearby, close, and minutely correct with small touches. Move this foot a bit forward, your grip’s a bit high, don’t draw back quite so far, relax, feel the draw here, in your chest…

At first he’s hesitant. It’s not so much that he’s afraid of angering the Soldier, though a ghost of that thought still hovers somewhere in his mind. He remembers the HYDRA goon the Soldier knocked out with one punch and has to suppress a shudder. But no, it’s not that. It’s more that he just likes the Soldier knowing how to do things: opening up panels and twisting wires together to unlock doors, injecting him with serum to destroy the nanobots in his bloodstream, figuring out the nanobots were there in the first place…

But it doesn't take long for him to realize how ridiculous this reasoning is. He’s the expert here. The Soldier may be quite skilled on more weapons than Clint can count, but Clint’s the one who knows the bow. He wants the Soldier to succeed, and of course they both–teacher and student–have the necessary tools for success. Clint’s done this countless times before, and the Soldier knows the basics of firing a weapon, and why little things like breathing and stance and grip are important. But it’s the putting everything together that counts, and it’s a new weapon, and Clint’s only recently realized that he’s falling in love with this particular student. So maybe it’s one of those times where the whole is not equal to the sum of its parts.

But still, he teaches. And it is not at all like teaching a child.

“Good!” Clint crows, watching the arrow fly down the lane.

The Soldier lowers the bow and turns to look at him, an incredulous look on his face. “Good? Really? I missed the target by five feet, Barton.”

Clint scrubs at the back of his neck, his lips quirked up in a smile. “Well, yeah. Your aim was terrible. I told you your body was angled the wrong way. But look _where_ you shot! You had _exactly_ the right distance. That’s great, man, you’re getting this!”

Far from looking pleased, the Soldier just looks exasperated. “I’m supposed to hit the target. Isn’t that the point?”

“Alright, alright,” Clint says, laughing. “Have it your way.” He’s determined to make this work, and if the Soldier gets frustrated, it’s never going to work. He’s got to relax.

“Stance first. There are several different ways to go, but for now just square your feet with the target. Nope, even with each other,” he says, lightly kicking the Soldier’s left foot so he moves it forward, even with the right. “Good,” he says. “Now keep the bow pointed down and nock your arrow. Be sure to keep–”

“The fletching the right way. Yeah, yeah, I remember that much,” the Soldier grumbles.

Clint bites his lip to keep from giggling. He’s not teaching a child, but the man sure is acting like one.

“Good,” Clint says, watching the process. “Relax your grip a little, you don’t need to strangle the bow, okay, now raise the bow and draw, easy, easy, and remember to keep your shoulder pointed at the target.”

It’s too much for the Soldier, though; as soon as he draws he drops the arrow. He'll get it, but Clint’s throwing too much at him at once.

“New plan,” Clint says, and he steps up behind the Soldier. Close. He interweaves his feet with the Soldier’s, right foot by right foot, left foot by left. Clint’s face is just above and to the right of the Soldier’s; he hears his breath hitch, stop, and then go on again. “This okay?” he murmurs, practically into the Soldier’s hair.

A curt nod.

Alright then.

“You hold the bow on your own,” Clint says softly. “We’ll practice raising and drawing at once later. For now, go ahead and raise it, and aim. Your feet are aimed right. Now aim your shoulder.”

The Soldier adjusts his body slightly, and Clint murmurs his approval. “Now the arrow,” he says, placing it in the Soldier’s right hand. “Nock, then draw, easy, just back to your cheek.” Clint lightly adjusts the fingers on the string, the elbow, the wrist. Then he wraps his left arm around the Soldier’s waist, puts his hand on his stomach. “Do you feel it? Just here? Don’t nod please, just answer.”

“Yes,” he says, soft.

“Good.” Clint already knew, could feel the muscles in his stomach pulled taut as the bowstring itself. 

“Now aim your arrow. With everything else aimed already you should only need tiny adjustments...good, very good. Now you know this part, but I’m going to talk you through it because my voice is going to keep you calm and thinking about other things so the part of your brain that’s good at this sort of thing can take over. Just keep taking nice even breaths. Not too deep, not too shallow. Don’t hold your breath. Don’t release the arrow in between breaths, release about halfway through an exhale, as if the arrow is part of your breath–yes, just like that. Gorgeous!”

And honestly he’s not sure if he’s talking about the Soldier or the shot; the smell of the Soldier, so close if he just leaned forward a bit he’d be kissing his hair, is beginning to intoxicate him, not to mention his hand on the Soldier’s stomach, fingers splayed wide, holding him there, holding him still. Clint’s heart is beating like mad, and he knows the Soldier can feel it against his back, and he knows he should be worried but honestly he just doesn’t want to move right now.

The shot is nearly perfect, piercing the target about half an inch from the bullseye.

Lowering the bow, the Soldier relaxes into Clint’s hold; Clint doesn’t have to see his face to know he’s smiling. He turns slightly, just enough to look up at Clint and says, “I’ve never had a lesson quite like that before. You’re a very dedicated teacher.”

“This isn’t my usual method,” Clint says. “You’re a special case.” His voice is more breath than anything else. He wishes he could sound more sure of himself, or more cool, or more _something_. He lowers his head until his forehead is resting on the top of the Soldier’s head. “I’m usually so much better at this,” he mutters.

“Teaching?” the Soldier asks.

“Flirting,” Clint says, then jumps, gasping. He hadn’t meant to– The Soldier had surprised him– He never would have–

“Oh fuck,” he says. He tries to hide, but currently the only place available is in the Soldier’s hair. While quite appealing, this doesn’t seem like the best plan ever.

“Hey,” the Soldier says. He turns around inside Clint’s hold, slinging the bow over his shoulder as he turns. Hesitantly he puts a hand on Clint’s cheek, gently cupping his face. “Hey,” he says again.

“I was pretty good at it once too, if the bits of memory I have left are real. I was quite the ladies’ man.”

Clint feels his heart fall into his stomach.

“’Course that was just what people saw. I’d take a gal out for dinner and we’d go dancin’. And it was fun, all of it. But other times, other nights, in dark, shadowy places, I’d…” He looks away, then looks back up at Clint before he says, “I’d be kissin’ a fella.” He shrugs. “Maybe that’s just what HYDRA put in my head. But it’s what I remember.”

Curious, cautious, Clint asks, “You had boyfriends _and_ girlfriends?” This is like Clint himself actually, but he’s surprised to hear it coming from...well, whenever the Soldier came from.

Ths Soldier shrugs. “Didn’t really have either. Girls for dancin’, boys for kissin’. Never figured out much more than that, and now…” He looks at Clint, and he’s never looked less like the Winter Soldier than at that moment. “I don’t really know who I am, Barton. So much of me’s been wiped away. Sometimes I feel like a good wind could just…” He waves his hand in the air, unable to find the right words but making his point just the same.

“You’re right here,” Clint says, taking the Soldier’s hands in his. “You’re solid, and you’re right here. As for the rest…” He pauses, unsure if he should go on. But the blue eyes looking up into his are so open, so trusting, so _real_ , that he says, “Let me help you?”

The Soldier doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t move away when Clint begins to lean down toward him. Slowly, slowly, never breaking eye contact, Clint presses their lips together.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they finally stop–Clint doesn’t want to stop but you can’t make out forever, can you?–they stand together, foreheads touching, both smiling ridiculous smiles. He’s almost afraid to speak, like it might break the spell, but after a full minute of grinning he gives the Soldier one more quick kiss and says, “Hey.”
> 
> “Hey.”
> 
> “That was…” Clint can’t find the words, so he just scrubs at the back of his neck and kisses the Soldier on the forehead.
> 
> The Soldier makes a content sort of humming sound, almost like a purr. “Yeah. It was,” he says.
> 
> “Wanna shoot some more?” Clint asks.
> 
> “That depends,” the Soldier drawls. “You gonna be my teacher?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, just look at my lack of self-control. Here ya go, Vex. Chapter Six, complete with...kissing!
> 
> Lira 🏹

People don’t get many perfect moments in life. The shooting star they see from the top of the Eiffel Tower while holding hands with the one they love. The snowfall at twilight on Christmas Eve, just when they think a white Christmas isn’t meant to be. The driver who stays at the stop sign just a fraction longer than necessary, then sees someone fly past without looking, barreling through where they might have been. Clint himself has had two: splitting his bullseye arrow for the first time when he was twelve, when everyone was watching and telling him he never could, and shooting a ravaging alien through the eye and into its brain, while he was falling off a building, killing it instantly–the impossible shot that saved Natasha’s life.

And then comes moment number three. The Soldier’s hands in his, one calloused and worn from years of using deadly weapons, the other slippery smooth. Clint’s slightly chapped lips, still dry from his recent captivity, teasing at the softness of the Soldier’s. He tastes like bread, and coffee, and the faintest hint of basil...and he still smells of strawberries.

They stand this way for long moments, seconds stretching into minutes, expanding like balloons, tentative kisses growing deeper as their tongues explore each other’s mouths. They break apart only to breathe–shallow, gasping breaths that neither of them can quite grasp–then they’re back together, only this time their hands are exploring too, hair and arms and backs and necks and Clint gets tangled in the bow and they both laugh, but it’s not nervous laughter, it’s bright and real and Clint feels like he’s going to shatter into a million pieces, a pane of glass struck by a hammer. But it’s okay, because the magic of this moment could pull him back together with just a blink.

When they finally stop–Clint doesn’t want to stop but you can’t make out forever, can you?–they stand together, foreheads touching, both smiling ridiculous smiles. He’s almost afraid to speak, like it might break the spell, but after a full minute of grinning he gives the Soldier one more quick kiss and says, “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“That was…” Clint can’t find the words, so he just scrubs at the back of his neck and kisses the Soldier on the forehead.

The Soldier makes a content sort of humming sound, almost like a purr. “Yeah. It was,” he says.

“Wanna shoot some more?” Clint asks.

“That depends,” the Soldier drawls. “You gonna be my teacher?”

They spend another hour with their bows; for a while Clint guides the Soldier, but soon he’s shooting on his own. Clint’s impressed; he’ll never be the sharpshooter Clint himself is, but he’s impressive to watch nonetheless. “You’re the best student I’ve ever had,” he says with a wink.

“Do I get a special reward?” the Soldier asks.

Clint laughs. “I think that can be arranged. I’m a champion cuddler, would that be an acceptable prize?”

The Soldier stares into the distance, pondering. “At least thirty minutes. And three kisses.”

“Sold!” Clint says. “Oh, I’m so easy.” As soon as the words are out he realizes how they sound, and that familiar (as of late) blush is back.

With a wink of his own, the Soldier says, “It’s pretty cute when you do that.”

The Soldier switches to his rifles next; he moves the targets farther away, and then farther still, until he’s satisfied. Clint settles himself against the base of a tree and just watches, nearly enchanted. He’s beautiful–this man, this assassin, this Soldier. He moves with a graceful efficiency when he’s holding a weapon; not a drop of energy wasted and still he makes it look like a dance. A chill runs down his spine when he remembers that the Soldier looked down his scope at him once upon a time. Because this man’s bullets go where he aims, just like Clint’s arrows. If he’d wanted Clint dead, he’d be pushing up daisies.

As if the Soldier can read Clint’s mind he lowers his rifle and turns to look at Clint. “I’m glad I didn’t shoot you.”

Clint’s not sure how to respond to that. Finally he just shrugs and says, “Yeah. That would've been a shitty day.”

The Soldier keeps his serious mask on for about thirty seconds, then a snort of laughter breaks through. “Christ, Barton. You can’t even let a guy be serious long enough to apolo–”

“Enough!” Clint shouts the word, but not in anger. He’s still smiling, though it might be tinged with exasperation now. “We’ve both been saving each other’s asses for awhile now, can’t we just agree that we’re linked together, you and me, and we don’t have to keep score?”

“That...sounds acceptable.”

Honestly, Clint had expected more of a fight.

“Well. Good then. That settles things.” He can’t really leave it there though, so he winks and mouths, “I win!” The Soldier rolls his eyes.

It’s either difficult to cuddle on the sofa or difficult to _not_ cuddle on the sofa. Clint hadn’t been exaggerating when he said a grown man trying to sleep on it would wake up tied in a knot, the thing is ridiculously small. So _two_ grown men sitting on it are practically cuddling by default, but if they actually _try_ to cuddle things get much more complicated.

After five minutes of trying to find a comfortable position Clint’s half ready to give up, but he’d promised the Soldier half an hour of cuddles and he is _not_ backing out of that deal. (He did briefly consider suggesting cuddling in the bed, but ultimately decided that might be pushing things too far too fast, especially since he’d–hopefully–get that opportunity in a few hours anyway. He’s got to send whoever broke the other bed a thank you card.) Finally Clint takes the cushions off the back of the sofa, tosses them across the room, and curls himself onto the now slightly wider sofa with his back pressed against the slightly uncomfortable wooden sofa back. “Come on,” he says, tugging on the Soldier’s arm. “You be the little spoon.”

And just like that he’s comfortable again. The Soldier is warm, warm enough even in the cool of the autumn afternoon that they don’t need a blanket, and their mingled heartbeats soothe him to a near-doze in no time. He’s got his arm over the Soldier’s side, pulling him close as he can, his hand splayed over his chest, right over his heart. “So warm,” he mumbles into the Soldier’s hair. “So thumpy.”

“What?”

“Your heart. It’s all thumpy. It’s good. Good and thumpy.” Clint sighs. He’s happy and cozy and can smell the Soldier’s sweat and the strawberries in his hair.

“Ah,” says the Soldier. “So you’re sleeping then?”

“Not sleeping!” Clint protests, then yawns loudly. “Just a little tired. And maybe drunk on you.”

“You have no idea,” the Soldier mutters, then he takes Clint’s hand from where it rests above his heart and begins kissing the calluses on his fingers. But Clint’s already mostly asleep, so maybe he just imagines it.

The room is glowing a golden orange when Clint wakes up again. Sunset, painting the sky, painting the walls, painting the world.

Sometime while he was sleeping they shifted; the Soldier’s on his back and Clint’s draped over him, arms and legs akimbo. It shouldn’t be comfortable, but Clint can’t remember a better sleep. The Soldier must have taken his aids out because he can’t hear the heartbeat thumping against his cheek, but he can feel it. _I’m strong_ , it says. _I’m strong_ and _I’m solid_ and _I’m here_. That last one’s Clint’s favorite.

Clint lifts his head just enough to look at the Soldier with a question in his gaze, pointing at one ear. The Soldier gives him an easy smile and snags his aids off the coffee table. Clint eases one in–into the ear not pressed against the Soldier’s chest–and when sound comes rushing back to him he croaks, “How long was I out?”

“Not too long. Little over an hour. I didn’t want to bother you; HYDRA may have healed your concussion but your body never got a chance to really recover from the healing. You pushed too hard yesterday, and I shouldn’t have let you out on the range. It was too much.”

“ _Let_ me?” Clint pushes himself up to a sitting position, shoving his other aid in a little too hard. He winces at the discomfort, then ignores it. “You’re not my fa–my mom or whatever. You don’t get to say when I get to shoot my bow. _I_ do.” Everything’s whirling around in his head. Why is he yelling? He doesn’t want to be yelling. He wants to be snuggling again.

For a moment it looks like the Soldier from the cell is going to come back, the one with the blank face and the wall between them. But instead he gets in Clint’s face. “Whatever happened to ‘we’re saving each other’s asses, we don’t have to keep score’? This is just part of me lookin’ out for you. Can’t you just let me do it?”

His face is so open and sincere that Clint has to look away, it almost hurts to look at him. Because it feels like Clint can see something of who he was once upon a time, before he became the Winter Soldier, and Clint wonders if maybe he can see a little bit of who Clint was before he became the Amazing Hawkeye.

“Maybe we aren’t so different, you and me,” he says softly. The Soldier gives him a quizzical look but he just shakes his head. “Thanks for looking out for me,” he says.

The Soldier looks out across the field of grass and trees and rocks, then up at the darkening sky. “This is the best safehouse I’ve ever stayed at.”

Having decided the charcoal grill is hot enough, Clint settles the two thick steaks onto the grate with a hiss and a sizzle. “My place is better,” he says.

“Your place?” the Soldier asks. “In Bed-Stuy?” He clearly doesn’t believe any place in the city could be better than this.

Clint flaps a hand. “Nah. I’ve got a...well. It’s just my place. Out west a bit. Perfectly tricked out safehouse, plus gorgeous views and all the stars you could wish on.” 

“Stars,” the Soldier says, and it’s the first time Clint’s heard that tone in his voice. There’s a yearning, but a sense of nostalgia too. Somehow sad and hopeful all at once. He wants to ask, but decides to just wait. If the Soldier wants to talk, he’ll talk.

“I remember stars,” the Soldier finally says. “It was...not here. Europe somewhere? But it was before. Before I became…” He clearly doesn’t want to name himself, to give himself the designation HYDRA gave him. That’s okay. Clint just nods, to show he’s listening, to show he understands.

“There were others with me. We had tents. Sometimes there was...blood.” Clint shivers, an involuntary reaction to the faraway, almost detached way the Soldier is talking. “But I liked the nights. The stars. The...friends.”

And that’s where the longing is. Friends. How long has it been since the Soldier had someone to call _friend_?

“Back then,” Clint asks, “what was your name?”

The second it’s out of his mouth he wishes he could take the question back. The Soldier never looks frightened–it’s not a look Clint can even imagine on that sometimes chilling, sometimes kind, always breathtaking face–but for a breath he looks _cornered_. Then the mask is back, the face that reveals nothing.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not him anymore. I have glimpses, sometimes, but right now, today, I have to find out who I _am_. Not who I _was_.”

And Clint’s heart cracks a little more for this broken, beautiful man.

“Smells good,” says the Soldier, clearly changing the subject.

Clint preens a little at the compliment, then swears under his breath. “Forgot the tongs to flip ‘em,” he says, nodding at the steaks. But before he can pull himself out of his lawn chair, the Soldier says, “I got it,” and he flips over a steak with his _bare hand_.

It’s his metal hand, but still. Wicked.

“Show off,” Clint muters, not wanting to come off too fanboyish. But he’s leaning forward to watch as the Soldier flips the other steak, and when he wipes his hand with the towel Clint brought out to wipe down the chairs he’s paying close attention to that, too.

When he’s done wiping it down the Soldier sits in the chair next to Clint and puts the metal hand in Clint’s lap, palm up. When Clint gives him a look of surprise, the Soldier just shrugs and says, “You want a closer look, don’t you? It’s all over your face.”

Clint laughs, and he just knows the excitement is showing. “Yeah, I really do. I’ve been hearing about this tech, this amazing arm, since I was a kid. The infamous Winter Soldier with the robot arm, scarier than the scary monsters and completely unstoppable. And then I’ve faced it–well, you, really–since the Avengers Initiative started up, more than once, and I’ve seen how formidable you truly are.” He looks up into the Soldier’s face, sees the mask, knows there’s pain behind those eyes. Looking back to the hand on his lap, he takes a finger and traces delicate shapes across the palm, along each finger, down to each fingertip. “And now I know this hand can be soft. Gentle. Caring.” He looks back up, and the mask is gone. _His_ Soldier is back, the one who bakes rolls and cuddles on the sofa and learns to shoot arrows because it’s something _he_ wants to do. “So here’s what I’ve learned. The tech is amazing, sure. But it doesn’t compare to the man attached to it.”

The Soldier’s eyes are shining with unshed tears and something that looks like pride, or joy. Clint raises the hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the palm. There’s a tang of metal, but somehow it too smells faintly of strawberries. Resting his own cheek against the Soldier’s palm, he says softly, “I won’t ask your name anymore. But unless you want me to keep making up ridiculous nicknames for you, maybe you should think on what I should call you?” The Soldier makes a noncommittal noise, and Clint resigns himself to “the Soldier” and ever sappier pet names for the foreseeable future.

Clint kisses the Soldier’s palm again, then sets himself to truly examining as much of the metal arm as he can. He exclaims when the metal plates shift, tilting his head closer to hear the soft whirring noise. He’s in awe of the intricate details, the thousands of tiny joints playing together to make the masterwork possible. “Did you ever get this up to full power? You grabbed that tool kit back at the HYDRA place but I haven’t seen you working on it at all.”

The Soldier smirks. Standing, he walks over to a big, old oak tree about ten yards from their seats next to the grill. “Sorry,” he says softly, patting the trunk of the tree, and then before Clint can even blink he cocks his arm back and punches. Splinters explode in all directions, and when the dust and debris clears, there’s...a hole. A fist-sized hole, all the way through the center of the tree.

“Damn,” Clint breathes, on his feet and walking to the tree before his brain catches up to his body. He kneels in front of the hole, peeking through to the fading daylight on the other side. He looks up at the Soldier, and a shiver runs down his spine at the pleased and powerful look on the man’s face. “What did that tree ever do to you?” he asks. He’s mostly joking. He’s also _very_ turned on. He puts out a hand and the Soldier helps him up, and when he hears the metal plates whirring he’s almost overwhelmed by the softness and the power, all in one package.

“Thanks,” Clint says, and he’s not sure if he’s saying thank you for the demonstration, for helping him up, or for everything in the past few days. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

“Yeah,” the Soldier says, and Clint can see in his eyes that he understands.

“Can I kiss you again?” Clint asks. “Your face, I just can’t help it.”

The blush Clint’s come to adore in just these few hours returns, and Clint’s insides warm.

“Yeah,” the Soldier says again.

So Clint does.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint wants to give it to him. Clint wants to give him _everything_. It’s ridiculous, they’ve only known each other a few days, really, but Clint still wants to hold this man in his arms and protect him from the whole world. (Also ridiculous. As if the Winter Soldier needs a bodyguard.)
> 
> So he smiles, and answers the question the Soldier doesn’t know how to ask. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Whatever you want, whatever you need, you can have it. I’m yours, baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, we're _finally_ earning that E rating... 😉
> 
> Lira 🏹
> 
> p.s.
> 
> This chapter is a bingo fill, too!!
> 
> WHB: square G1 - Bucky's trigger words

Clint and the Soldier sit in the backyard and eat steak and instant mashed potatoes and canned corn and more of the frozen rolls. They struggled through trying to cut the steaks while balancing the plates on their knees for a few minutes until the Soldier spies the woodpile. He finds two unsplit pieces and stands them on their ends in front of their chairs. “Tables,” he says.

Perfect.

The food is long gone, the first stars blinking onto the blue-black sky, when they go inside to clean up and go to bed. “I’ll take care of the dishes,” the Soldier says, looking Clint up and down. “You don’t look like you can stand much longer.”

“Don’t need you to baby me,” Clint mutters, lowering himself a bit and bumping the Soldier with his shoulder. He expects the Soldier to give a little, but he’s so tired he’s momentarily forgotten the whole supersoldier thing; it’s like bumping into a steel wall instead of a person, and he bounces back and ends up sprawled on the floor. He shakes his head, trying to wake up, more than a little dazed.

“Sorry,” the Soldier mumbles. “Didn’t see ya comin’.”

Clint is confused by the whole exchange and can’t figure out what he’s doing on the floor.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” the Soldier says. Clint brightens at that–he’s been looking forward to the bed part of the day since they first kissed. Or maybe since before he opened his eyes this morning–until the Soldier finishes, “...so I can get the kitchen cleaned up.”

“I can help!” Clint insists. “Don’t have to baby me.” He knows he’s pouting now, knows he’s being ridiculous, but he’s too tired to care. He doesn’t want to go to bed alone. Wants the feel of arms around him when he’s falling asleep, or at least the heat and heartbeat of another person, to calm his own heart.

To keep away the worst of the nightmares.

He’s been having dreams ever since he woke up in the strange room with the strange man called the Winter Soldier. Sometimes they twist and go bad, but they’re nothing like the nightmares.

The nightmares that have been plaguing him ever since Loki.

The Soldier must see something in his eyes because he says, “Alright, you don’t have to go to bed. But I’m not letting you do the dishes, you’ll drop things and then I’ll have to clean up glass and do first aid. Just sit here,” he pulls out one of the breakfast bar stools, “and I’ll make you a cup of coffee. You can keep me company while I clean.”

Clint perks up at the word coffee and as soon as he can smell it he comes–well okay, he’s not awake and alive, bright as the morning sun or anything like that, but he’s slightly more aware and able to do his part to keep the Soldier company. Once he’s on his second cup he’s happily chatting about Katie-Kate and how she’s even better than he is but don’t tell her that because it’ll give her a big head, and there’s only room for one big-headed archer on the Avengers, thank you very much. The Soldier keeps flashing him soft smiles, and with every one Clint melts a little more inside.

He wonders what it would be like to have the Soldier in his apartment, or on his floor of the Tower, and something inside him catches a little. Is he living in a little bubble right now, a bubble that’s destined to burst? Because the Soldier and the Avengers, they’re oil and water, right? Two un-mixey things. But how can he convince the others? This Soldier, _his_ Soldier, is not out to kill Avengers. Clint isn’t sure exactly what he _does_ want to do, but he clearly wants to get away. To stop being a puppet.

The whole thing hurts Clint’s head.

And his heart.

He’s so deep in his thoughts, swallowing coffee on autopilot, that he doesn’t realize the Soldier’s finished cleaning the kitchen until he feels an arm around his waist, tugging him off the stool.

“C’mon,” the Soldier says. “Let’s go to bed.”

The awkwardness of the night before is gone. So is the ‘I’ll sleep on the sofa’ nonsense. They both just strip to their boxers and slip into the bed.

Clint is the little spoon. He likes that.

_He could sleep in the sun all day. He used to do this when he was a kid, lay in the tall grass in this field, with the wind teasing his hair and the sun warming his skin. No one could find him out here, not even Barney; he was too small, just a ripple in a sea of green._

_Something passes between him and the sun, shading his eyes. He opens them to see the Soldier, bare chested, wearing worn jeans and work boots and a warm smile._

_“Gonna sleep all day, lazy bones?”_

_“Maybe. Unless you give me a good reason to get up.”_

_Clint doesn’t see him move but there are lips pressing against his, long, lazy kisses giving him plenty of reason to stay, to reach his hands up and tangle them in soft hair, to arch his body up for the friction he’s suddenly very much desperately seeking._

_“Patience,” the Soldier says. “You have to unlock the shackles first. I can’t do it myself.”_

_There’s a clanking sound, and when Clint looks down he sees that the Soldier has one wrist and one ankle shackled to a giant iron loop struck deep into the ground of the Iowa field._

_“But I don’t have a key!” Clint is desperate, searching all his pockets, even looking for bits of metal in his clothes. “There’s nothing,” he says, trying to hold back a sob. “I don’t understand, I thought I did this.”_

_“You did. But there are some shackles you can’t always see. Maybe you can kiss these ones away. Try, sweetheart. See if your kisses are magic. Remember the story I told you?”_

_“Close your eyes,” Clint whispers. “Remember who you are…”_

_He holds the Soldier’s face in his hands and kisses with everything he has, with his heart and his thoughts and his intent and his being. He’s in his own fairy tale, he knows it, with his own handsome prince right here in his hands._

And then the kiss is somehow even better, more solid, and the Soldier’s clean-shaven face suddenly has the rough feel of stubble under his hands, and where he’d been feeling the thin cotton stretch of a t-shirt against his chest he now feels only skin, hot, almost electrifying skin.

He’s not in Iowa, not at the farmhouse; he’s at the safehouse east of Buffalo and the Winter Soldier is kissing the breath out of him and if he dies this way it’s okay because nothing could ever top this moment anyway.

He moans his pleasure and the Soldier pulls away, just enough to look into Clint’s eyes. There’s a hunger there–not the fierce determination he’d seen during battle, but a true, deep down hunger for human contact. For a connection to the world.

For love.

Clint wants to give it to him. Clint wants to give him _everything_. It’s ridiculous, they’ve only known each other a few days, really, but Clint still wants to hold this man in his arms and protect him from the whole world. (Also ridiculous. As if the Winter Soldier needs a bodyguard.)

So he smiles, and answers the question the Soldier doesn’t know how to ask. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Whatever you want, whatever you need, you can have it. I’m yours, baby.”

There’s relief and lust and shyness flickering in the Soldier’s eyes, one after another. It’s absurdly adorable and Clint really wants to kiss him again. But instead he waits.

“I want to taste you, I think,” he says, his voice low and soft.

Clint nearly comes right then.

“I–” he tries to say, but it’s more like a breath. Okay, no, it’s actually a squeak.

He tries again.

“I’d really like that,” he says, then lightly kisses the Soldier’s lips. More electricity passes between them, a current he doesn’t want to break. Then he imagines those lips doing other things, and he whimpers.

The Soldier looks a bit startled, but when Clint says, “Anticipation,” he nods his understanding. 

And then his hands are at Clint’s waist, easing off his boxers.

Fingers digging into hips, breath on skin, hands and cloth running down legs. Clint’s brain can only flick-flick-flick through the sensations before the Soldier is kneeling between his legs, hitching Clint’s knees up, pressing tiny, teasing kisses to the inside of his thighs. It’s more than he can take and soon he’s keening, babbling, begging. The Soldier stops his exploratory kisses and whispers, “Anticipation” into his skin.

Clint’s hips try to buck but the Soldier is strong, so strong, holding Clint down with only one hand. “That shouldn’t be so hot,” he babbles, “but everything about you is fucking beautiful.”

These words bring a fresh blush to the Soldier’s cheeks, and fuck if that isn’t even prettier than everything else. Clint’s babble’s increase. He’s tiptoeing on the edge of madness and bliss and the Soldier hasn’t even touched his dick yet. “Please,” he cries. “Please. I can’t take it anymore!”

The Soldier just rises up enough to look at him, a thoughtful expression in his somehow ageless blue eyes. “I think you can,” he says. “For me.”

And Clint wants to. He said he’d give the Soldier the world but tonight he'll give just this. And maybe it will be enough.

“Alright,” he whispers. “Alright.” But he can’t calm his racing heart, because there are more tiny kisses–this time edging closer to his groin, closer to his ache, closer to his need. And it’s the Soldier’s need too, he can feel it in the heat radiating from every touch.

When the Soldier finally reaches his dick he’s sure he’ll explode at the contact, but his hand in the Soldier’s hair grounds him somehow, tethers him to the earth. The Soldier’s mouth moves on him in uneven, unpracticed movements; it’s not finesse but desire, not practiced but eager, and it is by far the best blowjob Clint’s ever had. When Clint makes happy squeaks and squeals and moans the Soldier responds with enthusiasm, and when Clint starts panting and jerking and shouts that he’s gonna come the Soldier moans, long and deep, and holds Clint down and rides out the white hot explosion with him.

Clint’s brain is still sending him error 404 messages when he feels the Soldier’s arms wrap around him and his erection press into his thigh. It’s hot, like a branding iron, and he wants to be branded, wants to be claimed. Clint’s oversensitive dick twitches like it wants to get hard again. “Ohhhh,” he says, and a tear leaks from the corner of his eye and trickles down his cheek. 

Well, that’s what he tries to say. What actually comes out is a bit of air and a sound like maybe something’s stuck in his throat.

The Soldier’s kissing his temple now, along his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. “You alright, darlin’?” he asks between kisses. “You were so very good.” And either the praise or the pet name in that low, sonorous voice makes him bite his lip again. He nods, letting his eyes fall shut and losing himself in the sensations. Lips finding the sensitive places on his jaw, down his neck, on his collarbones. Fingers in his hair, teasing his scalp, careful around the ears–the softest touches, when most just avoid them completely. Other fingers trailing across his shoulder, down his arm finding his hand to twine with his own.

And the feel of that dick digging into his leg; it’s a fire Clint wants to quench, if the Soldier will let him. Clint finds his tongue, finds his lips, murmurs, “Let me touch you. Please, I can’t take it.” He’s squirming, aching to reach but waiting for permission. “Or,” he says, turning his face so their foreheads are nearly touching, so he can look right into the Soldier’s big blue eyes. “Or you could fuck me. If you want.” Clint bites his lip, waiting.

The Soldier’s eyes widen. “I don’t...I mean, I never...or if I did I don’t remember…” He looks like a cornered rabbit.

“Shh, it’s okay baby. There’s no rush, alright?” Clint wants to soothe every ache, kiss away every bit of worry or fear. “But you’ll let me take care of you, won’t you? You’ll let me hold your cock in my hand?”

It’s the Soldier’s turn to moan.

In between pressing his own kisses onto every bit of the Soldier’s face he can reach, he says, “Is that a yes, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” the Soldier croaks, the word broken and cracked. And then, as if remembering his ma taught him to be polite, he adds, “Please?”

It’s so sweet, that one little word, that small syllable. He asks with his voice and his eyes and a sudden jerk of his hips and Clint knows he’ll do anything at all for this man, this man that he _loves_.

I love you, and I don’t even know your name, he thinks.

He wants to say it, to shout it, he wants _everyone_ to know–but he remembers the scared rabbit eyes, the “I don’t even know who I am” and holds his tongue. He tucks the love into his heart, keeps it safe. He doesn’t have to say it out loud. Not right now.

Instead he maneuvers the Soldier so he’s on his back, Clint propped up on his side next to him. “I want you inside me so much,” he says and the want is so heavy it makes his voice crack. “Even in my mouth–but not this time. This first time I want to see your face when you come for me. I want to see the light in your eyes.” He smiles, brushing a stray, sweaty lock of hair off the Soldier’s forehead. “Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, darlin’,” the Soldier says, his voice barely more than a breath.

The words send sparks down Clint’s spine, and it’s honestly not possible but his dick is desperately trying to get hard again. Look what you do to me, he thinks but doesn’t say.

“You’re so, so good,” he says instead, and the words taste strange in his mouth, an almost exact duplicate of the Soldier’s words, but they seem right, too. And when the Soldier blushes and smiles at him, almost shyly, he knows it’s good.

“I wanna hear you,” Clint says, voice low. He’s got a hand on the Soldier’s chest, drawing lazy loops and swirls with his fingertips. “You bein’ a sniper, we both know you can be quiet. Silent even. But now I wanna hear you _sing_.” On the word ‘sing’ he drags his fingernail across a nipple, and the Soldier lets out a wordless cry. Clint smiles. “There you are,” he says with a wink.

“You just gonna tease me all night?” the Soldier growls. Or tries to. His voice is too breathy for anything at all threatening.

Clint’s fingers, still tracing patterns on the Soldier’s torso, dip lower. The Soldier trembles.

“Not all night. Maybe just half.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” the Soldier huffs, bucking his hips.

Clint, not really wanting to be mean, captures the Soldier’s mouth in a sloppy kiss, all the while still tracing his fingers ever lower. The Soldier groans into his mouth, biting at his lower lip.

If he’s not careful, he’s going to get himself tossed right out of the bed next time the Soldier bucks those supersoldier hips of his.

Damn if it wouldn’t be worth it.

“Baby, we have a problem here,” Clint says in a conversational tone. Clint’s hand is moving lower and lower, and the Soldier’s heart is fluttering like a trapped bird inside his chest. He looks at Clint with wide, questioning eyes, clearly unable to speak.

Flicking a finger at the top of the Soldier’s boxers, Clint says, “You’re quite overdressed for the occasion, love. Now what do you think we should do about that?”

The Soldier rolls and scrabbles and there’s a tearing sound and then he’s naked and there are a few pieces of fabric fluttering to the floor.

“So fucking hot,” Clint says before he can stop himself. The Soldier blushes again. “I was actually hoping to do that myself–take them off you, not rip them–but that’s alright. We’ve got time.”

The Soldier’s actually trembling with need now, and Clint loves seeing him like this, loves feeling every shudder and hearing every time his breath catches; he loves knowing that the desire that’s been shattering him goes both ways.

“Look at me,” Clint says, and when their eyes are locked together he lets his hand move to the Soldier’s dick.

Again the image of a red hot branding iron flashes through Clint’s brain, this time blistering his palm, his fingers. He knows the Soldier’s cock isn’t truly that hot, but the shock, the intensity, startles him. It’s hard as steel in his grip, the tip dripping precome all over his stomach and onto Clint’s hand, easing the way.

“You feel so good,” Clint says, beginning to slowly pump his hand up and down the Soldier’s length. From the mewls the Soldier makes, from the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the wild intensity in his eyes it’s clear he’s not going to last long. “You feel just right in my hand, baby. Like with everything else, we fit together this way too.”

The Soldier’s eyes start to flutter, threaten to close, and Clint stills his hand. “No,” he says. “Look at me. Let me see you.” The Soldier focuses again and Clint smiles. “That’s it, love. There you are.” When Clint begins to move his hand again and the Soldier’s hips buck and jerk, and the Soldier’s flushed cheeks tell Clint it’s unintentional. “It’s alright. I just want to make you feel good, baby. I want you to come for me.”

It’s more than the Soldier can take; Clint’s words push him over the edge and he cries out as the semen coats his stomach. It’s beautiful, the pleasure in his eyes, knowing Clint’s the one who put it there.

They lie there for a few minutes, just looking at each other, lost in bliss and touch and eyes. Finally Clint says, “Don’t move,” and half rolls half falls off the bed, then stumbles his way through the bedroom door. When he gets back he’s got a warm, wet washcloth; he cleans the Soldier up, tosses it onto the floor, and then tucks them both into the bed. “My turn to be the big spoon,” he says.

“Mm-hmm,” the Soldier says.

“Words a bit too much for you right now?” Clint teases

“This is a quiet moment of peaceful reflection, so would you kindly shut your mouth and let me cuddle my fella?” the Soldier teases right back.

Clint starts to climb out of the bed. “Well if you’re busy, I surely don’t want to intrude on you and–” But the Soldier’s got his arm in a tight grip, and soon it’s a cuddle fight, and Clint can’t see how losing is any worse than winning.

It could be minutes later, it could be an hour, but whenever it is they’re both sated and happy, drifting off to sleep drunk on each other. Clint’s got an arm and a leg draped over his Soldier, holding him as close as possible–or as close as is comfortable. “I didn’t think this could ever happen,” he’s murmuring into the Soldier’s hair. “I’m not even sure when I started hoping it could. But sometime between when I first woke up shackled to the wall across from you and when we broke out of the HYDRA base, I stopped looking at you with fear and started looking at you with...with _longing_.”

The Soldier stiffens in Clint’s arms. For a moment Clint thinks he might be having a seizure; his breathing is erratic and the heart beating under his hand begins to beat faster and faster. Then it reminds him of something else. “Are you okay, baby? You havin’ a nightmare? Your heart’s beatin’ like mine does when I wake up from a bad one.”

“I’m...I’m fine,” the Soldier says. He sounds anything but fine, but Clint’s not gonna push. Not now, not when things are so new, so delicate. He’ll just do what he can to care for the needs he can see, and hope that takes care of the ones he can’t.

“Let’s just sleep,” Clint says, kissing his hair, his temple, his shoulder. “We can both use the rest.”

“Rest,” says the Soldier. There’s an odd tone in his voice that Clint can’t quite put his finger on, but before he can figure it out, he’s asleep.

A bar of sunlight in his eyes brings him awake in the morning; the curtain isn’t open, but the sun’s sneaking in around the edges. Squinting against the glare, he finds first the table beside the bed and then his aids on it. He even manages to get them in on the first try. Bonus.

There are birds singing outside. Actual birds. And not the cooing pigeons on the fire escape, either; no these are actual songbirds, tweeting away from the trees around the cabin.

Clint could get used to mornings like this.

It would be better with the Soldier in the bed with him, but he seems to be an early riser. Clint will drag him–and some coffee–back to bed.

In a minute.

Right now he just wants to remember. The long, drawn out kisses, the frantic bucking hips, the way desire and need seemed to fill the room, seemed to replace the oxygen until they could only breathe each other.

“It was perfect,” he whispers, then he clasps his hand over his mouth, remembering that his Soldier has hearing like Steve. Maybe better than Steve.

Well, the cat’s out of the canary now, might as well get up, he thinks to himself, then he laughs at his lame attempt at a joke. He decides Bruce might like that one, and tucks it into his brain for later use.

Dragging himself out of bed, he pulls on a pair of sweats and stumbles to the main room. “Mornin’, baby,” he calls. Sniffing the air, he says, “What no coffee today? You think cause you already got me you don’t have to do that sweet stuff anymore, is that it?” Clint starts to laugh, but the sound catches in his throat.

It’s too quiet, too still.

Something’s wrong.

The perimeter hasn’t been breached, he’s sure of that. The tech is too good, the alarms tested over and over by both Stark and Clint himself, not to mention countless others.

So why does the house feel so...empty?

Maybe the Soldier went for a walk. Maybe last night was too much for him and he needed some fresh air.

He’d have to be within the perimeter, though. Clint looks at the security panel. All green.

Cautiously Clint makes his way towards the kitchen end of the room. He should have grabbed a weapon, something about this just feels _off_. But it’s too late for that now, he doesn’t want his back to this big, open, maybe empty, maybe not room.

On the table, next to the jar of slightly wilted purple asters, is one of the Soldier’s big black knives. Worn hilt stuck into equally worn holster, a bit of silver blade sticking out the top.

An odd, twisty feeling hits Clint somewhere in his middle. The Soldier is neat about most things, folding his clothes when he takes them off, lining up his boots against the wall by the door, that kind of thing. But he’s borderline obsessive about his weapons...kind of like most of the Avengers are, actually. Clint can’t imagine him leaving one lying on the table.

Stepping closer, he sees that the knife is weighing down a piece of paper.

The twisty feeling gets worse.

He absently picks up the knife, runs his fingers over the hilt. It smells of metal and leather.

And strawberries.

_Clint,_

_I’m sorry. I know you won’t believe me, but it’s the truth. All of this is._

_Something happened last night. Something I can’t explain, something I barely understand myself, and it frightens me so much I have to leave. I have to make sure I can’t hurt you, not ever. I don’t know how to do that yet, but I’m going away to try to figure it out._

_Always,_

_your James_

_P.S. I’ll reset the security system using the panel at the road. I promise I’ll keep you safe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...please don't hate me.
> 
> *hides*


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint wants to believe it’s just a joke, that the Soldier–that _James_ –will be back in a few minutes. He showers, gets dressed, makes coffee. He pretends things are normal, that James is just outside, that he’s just in the other room, that he’s just…
> 
> But that doesn’t last long. His eyes keep straying to the paper on the table, to the black sheath and the black hilt and the thin strip of sharp silver blade catching the light just so. And if James is just out of earshot, why is his knife on the table?
> 
> If James is coming back, why did he say he’s so sorry?
> 
> So Clint gives up the pretense. He takes the pot of coffee and sits at the table, staring at the knife, at the note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, it's Unshackled day!!
> 
> Please let me take a moment to say how much joy I got from all the comments on the last chapter. *evil writer chuckle* I cannot promise that things are going to be easy–right away–for our favorite archer, but I _can_ promise a happy ending. It's gonna be okay.
> 
> Love, Lira 🏹

PART TWO

Chapter 8

_It’s dark. There are vague shapes in the darkness; nothing Clint can make out, but some of them sound almost human when he gets close enough to hear. He doesn’t want to be here, but he has to keep going, has to find–_

_“James!” he cries out, suddenly remembering who it is he’s been looking for in this murk. “James! Please come back! We’ll figure it out together, alright? Just let me help. Two are better than one…”_

_There’s a sound behind him, a moan, and it doesn’t sound like James but he knows he has to check, that if he doesn’t look he’ll go mad with the wondering, with the not knowing._

_He finds the figure, but when he touches it there’s something wrong, it isn’t human, it’s covered in silky fur…_

And then Lucky’s there, licking his face to bring him out of the dream.

To bring him back to his waking nightmare.

“Good boy, Lucky. Good boy.” Clint scratches the dog behind his ears, under his chin, then hugs him around his neck. “Good dog.”

Lucky licks him again, as if to say, “I am a good dog. Now please give me food and take me for my morning walk, this is no time to lay about.”

“Yeah, alright,” Clint says, dragging himself upright.

He finds clothes. He thinks most of them are clean, though he can’t be bothered to be sure. He’ll have to later, he has to go back to the Tower today, and if he’s not wearing clean clothes Nat will be all over him, all worried and motherly. He hates when she gets motherly, it’s not a good fit. She’s much more best friend material. Best friend, partner, spy, lethal assassin. That’s about right.

Oh, and she always brings the right treats for Lucky.

What more could he ask for?

After coffee Lucky pulls him down the stairs and out into the cool of a New York autumn morning. He sees James standing across the street, wearing Clint’s purple hoodie, but he doesn’t make eye contact this time. Doesn’t even flinch. Just lets Lucky lead him down the block to the tiny park they frequent.

In the park Lucky does his doggy business and Clint tries to keep his head down. It’s hard to not look at people when you’ve been trained to notice everything, but he tries. Still, he sees James on the bench almost immediately; he pings on Clint’s radar like an aircraft carrier in a harbor.

He doesn’t let himself look too closely, but it doesn’t matter–he’s got every inch memorized. James is still achingly beautiful. He doesn’t look armed, but Clint knows he’s bristling with blades, and probably at least two handguns. Possibly more. He’s wearing black leather gloves to cover his silver hand, but Clint doesn’t need the glint of metal to recognize him.

Clint’s pretty sure he’d recognize James in the dark, and blindfolded.

He wants to walk by, wants to stop torturing himself like this, but of course he sits on the bench. Lucky sprawls on the path at Clint’s feet, puzzled by their abrupt and early rest but happy for pets no matter when they come.

Lucky ignores James, like always.

Clint doesn’t turn to look, makes no effort to touch. Doesn’t even talk. Just leans down to scratch Lucky’s belly, tells him he’s a good boy, dodges a few licks to his face. After a few minutes he sits up, closes his eyes and whispers, “I miss you.”

When he turns his head to look, James is gone.

AT THE SAFEHOUSE

Clint wants to believe it’s just a joke, that the Soldier–that _James_ –will be back in a few minutes. He showers, gets dressed, makes coffee. He pretends things are normal, that James is just outside, that he’s just in the other room, that he’s just…

But that doesn’t last long. His eyes keep straying to the paper on the table, to the black sheath and the black hilt and the thin strip of sharp silver blade catching the light just so. And if James is just out of earshot, why is his knife on the table?

If James is coming back, why did he say he’s so sorry?

So Clint gives up the pretense. He takes the pot of coffee and sits at the table, staring at the knife, at the note.

_“Something happened last night. Something I can’t explain, something I barely understand myself…”_

That makes two of us, he thinks. Except he’s got no idea at all what spooked James. From his eyes it had been amazing.

Perfect.

And now he’s sitting alone at a table, staring at the things left behind by the man he loves. A knife and a note.

He skips lunch. And dinner. A small part of his brain tells him he should eat, that he’s not being reasonable, that he’s falling into a hole and it’s not healthy. This part of his brain, incidentally, has Natasha’s voice. But he ignores it, ignores her, ignores the gnawing feeling in his gut. He just stares at the knife and the note.

When it’s too dark to see he gets up to go to bed. In the bedroom he strips his clothes off and discovers something else James left for him, something he somehow missed when he showered: a blue-black bruise on his left thigh. A perfect handprint. He pokes at it and winces at the pain, then pokes at it again. James’s hand had been here, less than 24 hours before.

The pain is well worth the reminder.

He can’t sleep. Without James the bed is too big, too cold, too empty. He hears Nat’s voice again in his head, telling him he needs the sleep, he’ll never find James if he doesn’t sleep, he’ll never get home if he doesn’t sleep, and what the fuck is he going to do if someone breaches the perimeter?

Finally he finds James’s pillow, and the scent of him sends Clint into a fitful slumber.

In his dreams he is a lost sheep, and he can’t find his way home.

PRESENT DAY

Clint hesitates outside the Tower.

This will be his fourth time back since his time at the safehouse, since waking up at the Buffalo HYDRA base, since James. And every time he hesitates. These are his friends, his _family_ , but something is wrong now. Not with them. They just want to take care of him, to know he’s safe, to be there.

No. Something’s wrong with _him_.

But he doesn’t know how to explain the wrongness without explaining it all, and he just...can’t. He can’t even give it all to Nat, who wouldn’t judge, who probably wouldn’t even call him crazy, who would just listen and bring him coffee and keep him company on the nights he’s afraid to fall asleep.

So he hesitates.

But he always goes in. Because in the end they’re his family even if they’re dysfunctional. He needs the bickering and the teasing and even the sorrowful ‘I wish I knew what to do’ looks they exchange when he thinks they’re not looking. He needs the range and the gym–even if sparring is impossible–and watching Natasha tear through everyone when they go one on one. He needs MarioKart and team dinners and the giant mugs of coffee he can’t seem to get anywhere else. He even needs the dry humor he can only get from JARVIS, and the way Thor still can’t get used to chatting with the AI.

Taking a deep breath, Clint steps up to the door. “Hey JARVIS. Gonna let me in?”

“Of course, Agent Barton,” intones the AI as the door unlocks with a click. “The others are waiting for you, in the usual room.”

“Thanks, Jay.”

The usual room, he thinks, pushing open the door. The room that’s meant to be all cozy but they all know is meant for debriefing. For _interrogating_ him. Even though there’s nothing new to say.

Clint sighs. If Cap wants to try again, they try again.

“So you woke up in a cell in a HYDRA base.”

That’s Steve, being all soothing and team-leadery at the same time. Clint’s never been able to figure out how he does that. He’s the guy who can calm panicked civilians and call all the shots for the Avengers and still manage to punch Nazis in the mouth, pretty much in the same breath.

“I didn’t know it was a HYDRA base at the time, but yeah.”

“Can you tell us about it?”

Clint’s guard is up a bit. He can talk about the cell, but not about who was there. That’s not for anyone else. They wouldn’t understand. But it had been real. He fingers the blade he now always wears holstered along his thigh. Yes, it had been real.

“It was...cold. Dirty. My cheek was on the floor. And my head hurt. A lot. I remember thinking I either got hit with a shovel or a tank.”

“Alright. Good, that’s good. Remembering details. So now can you take us back a bit? How did you get there?”

And here they are again. The same question they’ve been asking for eleven days now. In four different sessions. As if he’s going to have a different answer this time.

“I don’t remember.”

And he doesn’t. It’s just a blank. The last thing he remembers is meeting Nat for coffee and bagels a few blocks from the Tower, feeling the late summer sun on his face. They’d been talking about nothing at all really; Kate’s new bow and how jealous he is _not_ , how nice it had been to have only local troubles for the past month so they didn’t have to leave the city, bets on who would break something at the next mandatory team dinner. (Clint bet on Tony, Nat bet on Clint.)

But after that there’s nothing. No memory of going home, no memory of going anywhere. No fights with any HYDRA goons, and certainly no sudden desire to travel to upstate.

Tony’s voice breaks into Clint’s thoughts. “I think I can help with that,” he says, rummaging in a plastic crate on the table in front of him. “It’s just...yeah. Here it is.” He pulls out some fancy tech doo-dad, a small metal circlet that’s obviously meant to fit around a person’s head. There are no bolts or electrodes or trailing wires or anything like that, but the intent is still clear: Tony wants to get into Clint’s head.

There’s a whooshing sound in his ears and everything but the silver circlet goes out of focus. Then there’s a clatter and he jumps; the crate and its contents are strewn across the floor, bits of tech and metal and plastic everywhere. Across the room Natasha has Tony backed against the wall. Clint can’t hear everything she says, and her back is to him so he can’t read her lips, but he catches _never_ and _Clint’s head_ and _Loki_.

Stark turns the color of ashes.

“Barton,” he says. “Clint. I’m...I’m really sorry.”

Clint has no voice. He just nods.

But he’s relieved.

As much as he’d like to know how he’d ended up in that cell, he doesn’t want other things to come up.

Okay, he doesn’t want _one_ other thing to come up.

He doesn’t want to talk about James.

James is only for him.

Nat’s hand on his arm makes him flinch; she pulls back like she’s been burned. She doesn’t understand this new no-touching policy, and she doesn’t like it at all, but she respects him. She might respect him more than she respects anyone else. _Sorry, little bird_ , she signs.

The very corner of his mouth quirks at that. It’s been so long since he laughed, since he even smiled. But Nat calling him “little” anything is always a good joke, and he can’t help it. She sees, and a tiny bit of the worry eases from her demeanor.

Not much, but enough for today.

It _is_ enough for today; she jerks her head towards the door and he nods. It’s time to go home.

IN THE SAFEHOUSE

He jolts awake, still clutching James’s pillow, knowing what he has to do.

It was the sheep dream that reminded him.

In the dream he’d been the sheep, lost and lonely, but when he’d been small, maybe six or seven, one of the ewes on the Barton farm had wandered away from the flock. She’d been pregnant, and near her birthing time, and his father...well. He’d been displeased. “What do you do out there all day, boy? You’re supposed to keep the sheep _together_.” Clint had ducked the blow that had punctuated the statement, but not by much. He’d looked up–and up and up–at the man who was supposed to take care of him and his mom and his brother but mostly just yelled a lot and used his fists when words weren’t enough and asked what he should do. The man had thrown up his arms in frustration and bellowed, “Go find my sheep!”

Clint was just small, and he’s never had any lessons to help with this. But Barney knew what to do. “C’mon,” he’d said, tugging his little brother by the hand.

And so on that Iowa evening Barney taught Clint how to track, how to read the signs of plants and dirt and rocks, how to know where an animal had passed and how long ago and if it had had anything to eat along the way.

So when he wakes from the dream, wanting to bleat as he had done as the lost and lonely sheep, he knows he isn’t really the lost sheep. He is the hunter. _James_ is the sheep. He just has to find the trail. Everyone leaves a trail.

Right?

He’s so excited, so eager, he doesn’t even make coffee first. Just grabs his aids and the closest clothes he can find, stuffs his feet into his boots, and darts through the door. He barely remembers to toggle the security system before he bursts through the door and jogs to the road. It feels so good to be moving, to be doing something, that he doesn’t notice until he reaches the post at the road.

It’s raining.

Not a heavy rain, but heavy enough that he’s been splashing in mud up the entire drive. Heavy enough that all the trees are dripping, and even the grass under the thickest trees sparkles in the morning light.

Any tracks James might have left are gone. Washed away.

He stands for a minute, letting the rain soak through his t-shirt. He doesn’t feel the wet, or the cold. Another minute, and another, and his hair is plastered to his forehead, and still he just stands there.

James is gone. He’s really gone.

No. He’ll come back.

He has to come back.

Clint sits down, barely aware of the mud squelching under him, grinding into his soaked sweatpants. He puts his face in his hands.

It doesn’t happen this way, does it? Falling in love and then...what, watching love just disappear? It’s supposed to happen the other way: there’s supposed to be a kiss and then happily ever after, not a kiss and then doom and despair and crying in the rain.

“Fucking fairy tales,” he spits, then shouts it at the sky. “Life isn’t a fucking fairy tale!” He picks up the first thing he can find–a pinecone, very unsatisfying– and throws it into the road, where it bounces almost merrily. He screams at it, at himself, at nothing and everything; screams until his throat is raw, until he has no voice left and is left with only tears running down his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. Whatever I did, I take it back. I take it back. I take it back.”

When he’s so cold he can’t feel his fingers anymore he goes back to the cabin.

And James is standing in the doorway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please continue to yell at me. I even love the hate mail. It gives me life. 😜


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Want me to come up?”
> 
> Clint looks up; the car is idling in front of his building, and Nat’s looking at him with a dispassionate look on her face. He can see the hope in her eyes, though. No, he thinks. “Sure,” he says. Once again, betrayed by his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, it's Unshackled day!! I don't know how long I'll be able to keep this up, but I'm _trying_ to post on Mondays and Thursdays. I've been able to have a decently steady writing schedule lately, which has been very nice. Hopefully that will continue!!
> 
> Love, Lira 🏹
> 
> p.s. Thank you _so much_ for every single comment. They all bring me such joy!! 💜

Chapter 9

PRESENT DAY

Clint doesn’t sleep at the Tower anymore. He knows he probably should, knows if nothing else JARVIS could probably help with the dreams. He’s always had a good thing with the AI; JARVIS has this whole bed-shaking thing to wake him up if the call to assemble goes off when he’s sleeping, can always play the right music for his moods, has every single episode of _Dog Cops_ on file for his down days.

And when he wakes up from a nightmare, JARVIS shows him the file.

He can’t remember when it started, or who had the idea first, but he’s been doing it for awhile now. When he screams himself awake, when the nightmares get so bad that he can’t close his eyes anymore, he asks JARVIS to see the file. And there, on the nearest screen, Clint sees face after smiling face. Old and young, men and women, curly haired kids and bald babies and pimple-face teenagers. One after another after another.

People he’s saved.

Not just him exactly, some are credited to the Avengers as a team. But some of them he can remember: the woman he stood over, shooting arrow after arrow, keeping the aliens away from her until she could be taken to safety. The little boy he pulled out of the way of a falling bit of debris just before it landed on his leg. The old man who had his foot stuck in his car. He’d been in a crossfire, and Clint had stood beside him, shooting arrows when he could, reassuring the man when he couldn’t, until Tony could come and slice the car away from the man’s foot.

It doesn’t always mean he can go back to sleep, looking at the file. But it calms him, and reminds him that he’s done good. That no matter what bad he did for Loki, his good cannot be erased.

But there are too many people at the Tower. People who want to _talk_ , who want to know how he’s doing and if he needs anything and if he’s remembered anything new and it’s all just so _exhausting_. So he’s grateful when Nat leads him home at the end of the debrief with Cap and the others. Home has its own troubles, but at least it’s quiet.

AT THE SAFEHOUSE

Clint just stands there, in the rain, looking at James. Neither one of them speaks. Clint can’t figure out what to say.

_Hey man, guys I sleep with don’t usually run away after, what’s up with that?_

_Nice of you to come back after leaving me with a day and a half of thinking I did something horrible to drive you away._

_I know you went a really long time between relationships, but this isn’t the way, old man._

_...I never got to say I love you._

Instead he just gives James a long look and walks into the house. He knows James will follow.

When Clint sits down at the kitchen table James is already there, sitting across from him. How does he move so fast, and so silently? He’s only ever seen Natasha move like that. He takes a minute to think about James and Nat in a room together and almost grins. They’d size each other up in seconds, and either be the best of friends or instantly try to kill each other. Maybe both. Honestly, Clint doesn’t know who he’d bet on in that fight, but it would be beautiful to watch.

(Nat. He’d bet on Nat. She’d kill him if he bet against her.)

It’s so quiet in the house. They just sit looking at each other for long minutes, across the table, across the jar of wilting asters, across the piece of paper. The paper that glares up at Clint like an accusation, like a curse.

The knife is still there too, still just out of its sheath. Clint lets his gaze linger on it, on that sliver of silver.

“You forgot something,” he says. His tone is light, conversational, as if he hadn’t just spent who knows how long screaming at the sky.

James doesn’t answer. He glances at the knife, at the note, then looks back at Clint. For a second it looks like he’s going to reach out, to make some kind of gesture, to do _something_ , but in the end he just sits.

The silence settles over Clint like a blanket, but one that’s full of holes and lets all the drafts through. When he starts to shiver, when his teeth start to chatter, he pulls himself to his feet. The sound of the chair clattering to the floor behind him makes him jump.

“Well this has been enlightening,” Clint says, trying to hide the hurt tone in his voice. James winces; apparently Clint’s not that great at hiding today. “I’m just gonna get changed. You can do...whatever it is you came here to do, I guess.” He gestures vaguely around the room, shakes his head slowly, and turns towards the bedroom.

But when he gets to the door James is already there, blocking his path. In spite of his frustrations he’s impressed with James’s speed and silence; he thinks even Nat would be. But he’s too hurt to dwell on that now. “C’mon, man, I just want to get into some dry clothes. In case you don’t realize, I’ve had a rough couple of days.” He moves to shoulder past James, but something happens that makes his gut rise into his throat so fast he vomits onto his boots, bile from his empty stomach burning his throat.

His shoulder passes through thin air, right where James had been standing.

Because James fucking _disappears_.

PRESENT DAY

It’s odd in the car home, with Nat sending him comforting looks from the seat next to him and James sending him nearly identical looks from the passenger seat. He knows Nat is fairly desperate to slide across the seat and curl up into his side, but he also knows she won’t. He just can’t stand to be touched anymore; every single time he touches James he disappears, and even though he knows James isn’t real, that James is only in his head, there’s also a taunting little voice deep in his brain saying ‘if you touch your other friends they’ll start to disappear too, and then what will you have, dear Hawkeye?’

He’s slowly going mad, seeing things and hearing voices and not being able to hug his best friend. And then there are the dreams, the dreams that are somehow worse than his usual nightmares. He’s very close to asking Bruce and Tony to brew up something to make him sleep hard and deep, but then he wonders if that might be worse.

Slowly going mad.

But he’s trying to hold onto Nat–even if he can’t bring himself to touch her–and Lucky never disappears so at least he’s got _something_.

“Want me to come up?”

Clint looks up; the car is idling in front of his building, and Nat’s looking at him with a dispassionate look on her face. He can see the hope in her eyes, though. No, he thinks. “Sure,” he says. Once again, betrayed by his mouth.

As usual Nat’s got a treat for Lucky in her pocket, which the ball of fur sniffs out immediately. After wolfing it down he flops onto his back and begs a tummy rub from Nat, which she dutifully gives him. When she’s done Clint clips the leash onto Lucky’s collar; as soon as he hears the snick Lucky leaps to his feet and gallops to the door. Clint tries to be disgruntled, says, “I thought you were supposed to be well mannered?” but he ends up laughing at the dog’s enthusiasm. “Alright, you beast, let’s get this over with.” Lucky woofs a low, annoyed sound, and Clint laughs again. “Fine, fine, we’ll take our time. Nat, toss me that ball, will you?”

Before he’s finished the sentence the ball’s in the air, a perfect throw, and just before it lands in Clint’s palm Lucky leaps up and steals it. Nat laughs, but he sees worry behind her eyes. When was the last time Lucky beat him?

She’s got her head in his fridge when he and the dog go through the door. “You need to go shopping, little bird,” she mutters, just loud enough for him to hear. But he knows there will be something edible when he gets home. He can count on Nat.

Lucky drags him up the street in more of a run than a walk. He sees James a few times–leaning in doorways, sitting on curbs, once leaning out a bus window–but he doesn’t make eye contact. It’s easier that way. When they get back to his apartment it’s infused with the smell of bubbling goodness, all garlic and tomatoes. “It’s a mix of noodles, since there wasn’t enough in any one box to make a meal. Looks pretty though. I did find a whole, unopened jar of sauce though, and I chopped up half a bell pepper for extra flavor.”

Clint almost hugs her, but stops himself at the last second. “Smells fantastic, Nat. What would I do without you?”

With a meaningful glance at the pile of overflowing takeout boxes by the front door, Nat says, “Flip a coin to decide between pizza and chinese.”

He shrugs. “It’s chinese day, actually. But this is better.”

They sit on the sofa, legs propped on the coffee table. The space between them feels like miles; times like this they used to drape into each other’s space, stretching and cuddling and becoming a tangle of arms and legs. He hasn’t even braided her hair or rubbed the tension out of the muscles in her back and shoulders since before this whole mess.

But he can’t. Even thinking about touching her makes his stomach flip and his head spin. Out of nowhere he hears the cruel laugh of his big brother. “What’s this? The Amazing Hawkeye’s _dizzy_?” He shoves Barney’s voice away, deep down, back to where it’s just a whisper, and takes another bite of his pasta. He needs to eat, needs his strength.

Gotta stay strong to lose your mind, right?

The television stays off. No one speaks. The sound of chewing and the clicking of Lucky’s claws on the floor as he wanders through the apartment is the only break in the silence. Clint keeps expecting Nat to say something. He keeps sliding his eyes sideways, to see if she’s watching him, but she seems completely engrossed in her pasta, as if she’s forgotten he’s even there. It’s almost infuriating. She’s waiting him out, like she would with a mark. Honestly. Nat using her tricks on _him_. As if he doesn’t know the same tricks she does. As if he didn’t teach her some of them. Or, well, learn some of them from her.

Finally he can’t take it anymore. She wins. Of course she does, she always wins. He’s not gonna say it, though.

“Fine, fine. You win.” Good job with that one, Clint’s brain.

Natasha turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m okay. Not great, but okay. Gettin’ by.”

She still doesn’t say anything, just keeps giving him that look.

“I don’t need to talk it out, Nat. I’m good. I’m fine. I’m…” He searches his brain for a word that will appease her. “I’m a survivor.”

Her looks softens; not much, but enough that he notices.

“Look,” he says. “I know I’m...different. Since I came back. I jump at shadows, and I barely talk, and I don’t like to be touched. I know it’s weird, and I know you want to know all about it. But…” This is where it gets tricky. If he lies, she’ll know instantly. So he tiptoes through the truth. “but some of it I just can’t explain, because I don’t understand it all myself.” There. All true. He has no idea why he sees James everywhere. He knows it’s probably a symptom of insanity, but he doesn’t know why his brain manifests images of James in particular. He wants to grin, he’s so proud of his truthful lie, but he holds his sincere mask on tight. He has to make Nat believe.

Because he doesn’t want to talk about James.

She wants to reach out and touch him, he knows she does. But instead she says, “We’ll get you through it.” Then, after what looks like an interior battle, she says, “Can you tell me anything?”

“I had to steal a car.”

Nat rolls her eyes. “Which you’ve told us at every debrief.”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “But I actually felt bad about it. I thought about the owner, how they would have their life turned into a whole mess because of me. It was a necessary thing, I wouldn’t have survived without a car. But I didn’t like doing that to another person.” He looks at her. “Did you know that when I got home I made sure Stark returned the car, and paid for every day I had it? I have no idea how much he paid, but I told him to take it out of my paycheck or whatever. With JARVIS investing it I’ve got more than I need anyway.”

Of course he doesn’t tell her he felt that guilt because James put the ideas into his head, but it’s all still true. He wonders if James knows he really did return the car and pay the owner.

He wonders if James is still alive, or if he’s being haunted by James’s ghost.

Currently James is walking up and down the stairs. His heavy boots don’t make a sound on the steps, even the creaky one, and the few times he wanders into the room and steps onto the rug he doesn’t leave an impression on the loose weave. He can see where _he_ walked earlier, and Nat’s smaller footprints, but not where James crosses.

Clint rakes his fingers through his currently very shaggy hair. “You won’t let me cut it?” Nat asks with a disappointed tone. “Or let me take you somewhere to get it cut?”

His own fingers in his hair are fine. But Nat’s fingers? He shudders. He remembers James’s fingers, so deadly but so tender, and he wants to cry.

“Please,” he says. He’s not even sure what he means by the word, but he thinks she’ll understand. He knows he sounds broken. He hates feeling this way, hates that the cracks inside have come so close to the surface. But this is Nat. She’s always understood.

Nat turns on the sofa so she’s facing him. “Are you sleeping, little bird?”

He looks away. “Of course.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Barton.”

“I’m sleeping every night,” he says. Then he lets his head fall to the back of the sofa, so he’s staring at the ceiling. “Just not very well,” he says with a sigh. “There are...dreams. Not nightmares. I’d almost welcome the Loki nightmares back again. At least those are predictable. These are...Nat, these are _real_. Even when I’m a sheep, or I’m flying or something bizarre like that, they feel _so real_. And almost always when I wake up I feel like I’m in the wrong place, like the dream was the real world and I’m waking up into some strange alternate reality.” Turning his face away from her he says in a cracked voice, “Half the time I don’t know if I’m awake or asleep. If things are real or just something I’m imagining.”

James crouches down in front of him, so their faces are only inches apart. His blue eyes look so sad, and so far away.

Clint screws his eyes shut, unable to take James’s open gaze any longer. “Please don’t tell Stark and Banner,” he says to Natasha. “They’d give me drugs, but I don’t think it would help. What if I slept deeper but at the same time fell deeper into the dreams? Or what if I couldn’t wake up? Or if I, I don’t know, started hallucinating?” He starts laughing then, a laugh bordering on hysterical, and knows he’s got to pull himself together or she’s going to knock him over the head and drag him to medical, aversion to touch or no. So he gulps some air, then turns to look at his best friend; this time to give her a true and honest look. “I don’t want to check into medical, Nat. Having Lucky around when I wake up helps. He’s real. Solid. And after Kate had him all that time I was missing…”

He can see her giving in, just a bit. She knows how much Lucky means to him. And as much as she’d like him closer, she knows how much he hates being in medical.

“I’m coming to check on you in the morning.”

“With coffee?” he asks hopefully.

She makes a very rude noise. “If you think I’m getting close to you without a cup of coffee, _in the morning_ , you must think _I’m_ crazy.”

“Not you. Never you,” Clint says. He almost hugs her. His arms want to hold her. He wants to feel her strength, to smell her hair, to kiss the crown of her head and tell her everything is gonna be alright...because that’s what they do for each other.

But that little voice, it’s still whispering in his ear.

What if she disappears too?


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’m gonna find you, you know.” It’s not a question. Clint doesn’t know how to begin to find an assassin who fades into shadows like a ghost, but he knows he has to. His heart learned to beat in tandem and feels somewhat askew beating on its own._
> 
> _“Probably,” says James. “But I wish you wouldn’t try.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Unshackled day!! I'm so tired, and have such a headache...I almost forgot. But I remembered in time. This is kind of a little chapter, but I like it. I hope you do too!
> 
> love, Lira 🏹

AT THE SAFEHOUSE

_He’s never seen so many stars. They seem so close, like he could reach out and touch them. He reaches out a hand, but just when it looks like he might reach one they all start to move, to swirl around his hand like some kind of magical whirlwind._

_“Fairies,” says a voice beside him. He looks, and it’s James, sprawled on his back next to him, watching the sparks of light spin and swirl around Clint’s outstretched hand._

_“Really?” Clint asks. “I’ve never seen fairies before. I thought they were just in stories?”_

_James nods. “They’re attracted to lost things. And you and I, we’re certainly lost.”_

_The fairies continue to sparkle, occasionally alighting on Clint’s fingers, softer than butterfly wings. He turns to look at James, sees the fairy lights glinting off the silver of his arm and the soft brown of his eyelashes. He doesn’t look lost; he looks solid, and beautiful, and something like home._

_“I’m gonna find you, you know.” It’s not a question. Clint doesn’t know how to begin to find an assassin who fades into shadows like a ghost, but he knows he has to. His heart learned to beat in tandem and feels somewhat askew beating on its own._

_“Probably,” says James. “But I wish you wouldn’t try.”_

It’s still dark when Clint opens his eyes. He’s expecting fairies, but instead he gets James, still laying next to him. “You’re not real,” Clint whispers. He can’t hear his own voice–his aids are on the table by the bed–but he says it again and again. “You’re not real. You’re not real.” He rolls off the bed, almost afraid. He doesn’t know what the thing on the bed is, but it’s not James.

He shoves his aids in a little too hard. Not that it matters, since the apparition doesn’t seem to be able to speak, but it’s good to be able to hear the sounds of the night around him. “Are you…” He stops, because he wants to ask but he’s afraid at the same time. He looks at James again.

“Are you a ghost?”

James looks down at himself, puzzled. He looks at his hands, touches his chest and stomach. He shakes his head.

“Not a ghost? So you didn’t leave here and, uh, get eaten by a badger or something?”

The look he gets is all disdain and reproach.

“Fine, fine. You didn’t get eaten. But you’re not dead? You weren’t killed some other way?”

James starts to shake his head no, but then shrugs.

“You don’t know?”

He shrugs again.

Clint, still leaning against the wall, sinks to the floor. He lets his head fall between his knees and scrubs at his hair. “Well this has been enlightening.”

And then the knot in his chest suddenly loosens and he’s crying. Sobbing.

Again.

He doesn’t believe James is dead. He doesn’t. James isn’t stupid, he’s not the type to walk into danger, and he’s certainly not the type to walk into any situation without paying attention. No, James is out there somewhere, on his way to...something.

No, not on his way _to_ something. On his way, hurrying _from_ something.

Away from Clint.

Clint spends the next few days doing everything he can to stop thinking about James–he cleans the safehouse, including all the weapons, he spends a lot of time with his bow, he walks the perimeter to make sure the security system is properly maintained, he experiments with a few new recipes–but all his busywork does is make him think of James even more.

James could make better pork chops, I think.

I’d like to see James try to make that shot.

It would be a lot easier to clean under the sofa if James was here to move it for me.

And every morning he wakes up thinking he should just go, just get in the car and drive back to the city. There’s money down in the armory, so he’s got plenty of funds for fuel; there really is no reason to stick around.

Except…

“Except James might come back,” Clint says to no one. His voice is hoarse, he barely uses it anymore. He looks across the room, at James, at the shape in the air that looks so much like James it hurts, right down to the strands of hair falling in front of his eyes. It’s so hard to see him all the time, to see him sitting on the sofa or walking under the trees or sprawled on the bed or leaning against the car and know it’s not really his James. He turns away from the shade, the apparition, the hallucination, and says, “Please. Just go away. You’re not...him.” His voice breaks, and instead of getting up to make coffee he goes back to bed. He’s not going back to the city today.

Maybe he’s not ever going back.

PRESENT DAY

_The library stretches for what seems like miles in every direction. It’s comforting somehow, the smell of books, the fireplaces and squashy armchairs and sofas, the soft hush of feet on carpet on top of murmuring voices. Clint even found a tiny nook with a coffee maker, so he’s sipping marginally okay coffee while he browses the collection._

_He pulls a book off the shelf to look at it more closely and someone peeks at him through the gap left in the shelf. He sighs. He’s frustrated, but also resigned._

_“Still following me?”_

_Natasha doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to._

_“I’m okay, Nat. I had a bad stretch there, but I’m a big boy. I can handle myself.”_

_Still nothing._

_“Some things aren’t meant to be spoken aloud. Remember Budapest?”_

_She just looks at him. He can almost feel her poking around inside his head._

_“Just leave it alone, Natasha. Please.” He slams the book back into its place on the shelf–even though he actually quite wanted to read it–and turns to find another aisle to browse in._

_Natasha is standing in front of him. Her stance is relaxed, but Clint knows she’s like a tiger under the surface, all coiled muscle, ready to pounce._

_“I’m going to find out about James eventually. You might as well tell me now.”_

Clint wakes up on the floor next to his bed, trying to keep from spilling the cup of coffee that isn’t in his hands anymore.

He blinks a few times, disoriented, looking around for Lucky. His dog is always there when he wakes up. Always. Grabbing his aids from the table and hooking them over his ears he takes a moment to adjust to a world of sound, and then he understands why he woke up alone. Lucky’s downstairs, greeting Natasha at the door. He can hear his tail thumping happily against the floor, hear his soft woofs, hear Nat’s answering coos and croons.

She’s been coming every morning for a week: bringing him coffee, making sure his head’s screwed on straight, sitting with him while he talks about nothing. Sometimes they watch mindless tv, sometimes they just sit in silence. She makes sure he eats breakfast, and showers, and has clean clothes to wear.

She doesn’t try to touch him.

Nat’s the best friend he could ever ask for. He remembers the first time he saw her, all those years ago. He’d been ordered to kill her, but there’d been something about her, something he could see even from a distance. She was all fire, all light, and he couldn’t be the one to put that fire out. So he’d made a call.

This morning he stumbles down the stairs, one hand reaching for the coffee she gives him with a knowing smirk. “Morning, sleepyhead. Got any new bruises?” At Clint’s confused look she says, “I heard you fall out of bed. Sounded like it hurt.”

He rubs his hip, and yeah, he can feel a new bruise forming. He winces. “Just another dream. Nothing worth talking about.”

Her sidelong look tells him she knows he’s lying, but she doesn’t push. Instead they sit on opposite ends of the sofa and she unpacks the insulated bag she’s got with her, filling the apartment with homey smells. “Tony and Steve made breakfast for the team this morning. They asked me to bring some for you.”

Clint takes a minute to swallow down the lump in his throat. He misses his time with the team–the meals, the time on the range, the MarioKart marathons, the movie nights. He misses going on missions, even the ones that land him in medical. He misses wandering onto the common floor in the middle of the night to find Sam or Tony or Bruce or whoever, and just spending an hour or so in the dark drinking a beer and talking about nothing at all...or everything.

And having them send him breakfast makes him realize they might be missing him, too.

“That smells great,” he says once he thinks he’ll be able to speak without his voice betraying his thoughts. “Thanks.”

Of course she knows exactly what’s going on in his head. She always knows.

“We’re having movie night tonight,” she says, the picture of casual. “It’s Tony’s choice, so who knows what we’ll end up watching–probably something from the 80s he thinks it’s scandalous that Steve missed out on–but it’ll be fun. You should come.”

Clint looks at his food–a breakfast burrito made just the way he likes, with peppers and onions and all the melted cheese on the scrambled eggs, crispy hash browns, and perfect bacon–and wonders what it would feel like to sit and eat with his teammates again. His friends, his... _family_.

James is looking at him curiously from his seat on the stairs. Clint doesn’t _look_ , doesn’t want Nat to see him looking at something that isn’t there, but he can see from the corner of his eye. “Maybe it’s time to stop living in the past,” he says slowly. The dreams will still be there. The hallucinations. But he can learn to live with them, can’t he? It might take a lot of work before he can go on missions–who knows if he’ll start hallucinating something besides James, and even if James is the only thing, he might be very distracting during the heat of battle–but he could start going to the Tower again, for more than just debriefs. Because the debriefs haven’t been helping, and they just stress him out, but time with the team...that might be good.

He looks at Natasha. She isn’t pushing, isn’t even looking at him expectantly, or knowingly. She’s just looking at him like she loves him.

“Movie night sounds good,” he says, a very small smile creeping onto his face. “Sounds real good, actually. I kinda miss you all.”

“We miss you too,” she says. She reaches out a hand and pulls it back all in one motion, her smile collapsing in on itself. She doesn’t exactly apologize, it’s not her style to say she’s sorry for every little thing, but he sees it anyway. It’s in her eyes.

It’s alright, his own look says. He’s worn thin from saying the words out loud. It’s all too much right now, so he just eats his breakfast in silence.

When it’s all gone, when he’s settled back on the sofa with his hands behind his head and his eyes closed he says softly, “Can we be like before, Nat? Just for a few minutes, can we try?” He can’t see her, but he knows she’s gone still, waiting for clarification, maybe waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Just…” He’s trying to find the right words. There’s no way to explain _why_ , but hopefully he can get her to understand _what_. “I’m gonna keep my eyes closed, but could you maybe lay your head in my lap? Like we used to do? I…” He’s run out of words, but it doesn’t matter because she’s already moving, and he’s filled with terror that she’s going to disappear, he can barely breathe, but then her head is resting on his leg and it’s the best thing he’s felt in _months_.

“Tasha,” he whispers, and before he even thinks he’s running his fingers through her hair. “Can you…” He has to stop to get his voice under control. “Can you stay for awhile?”

“Got nowhere to be just now,” she says, and he’s surprised to hear emotion in her voice, too.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was just asking if you wanted to come by the range tomorrow. I’ve got a few prototype arrows I thought you might like to play with.”
> 
> Clint can’t keep the needy, hopeful smile from his face. This has obviously been in the works for some time now, a plot to get him back to the Tower, but he doesn’t care. New arrows. _Any_ arrows, really. He’s been itching to shoot at something other than the walls in his apartment. There’s no challenge there, considering the size of the place. And he’s getting tired of fixing all the holes in the walls.
> 
> “That...that sounds good, Tony. Sounds real good.” It’s hard for him to get the words out, but once he does, he feels a weight lift off his chest.
> 
> It’s okay to be happy. It’s okay to do the things he loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday! I sure had a "Monday" day at work, so it's super good to be able to share a chapter with you today. I'm not saying a word about this one...*locks lips*
> 
> Love, Lira 🏹

PRESENT DAY

The movie is, of all things, _The Princess Bride_.

“Not a single one of you can complain about _The Princess Bride_ , so don’t even try,” Tony says, glaring at each of the gathered Avengers in turn. They all give him serious looks when he glares, but as soon as he moves on to another they grin. Even Clint gives a halfhearted smile. He’s right though, they can’t complain. They all love this movie. It doesn’t take long before they’re all quoting along with the characters on the screen, and when they reach the sword fight between Indigo and the man in black Thor and Tony leap to their feet to replicate the battle with imaginary swords. It’s glorious, and Clint can’t help but laugh.

He can’t remember the last time he actually laughed.

He and Natasha have a sofa to themselves, and this time he’s got his head in her lap. It feels so good to feel her fingers absently carding through his hair, or her hand just resting on his arm. He’s always been a touchy-feely kind of guy, and going months without being touched had been its own kind of hell. But he’d been so deep in everything else, so deep in the nightmares and the hallucinations and the secret-keeping, that he hadn’t even noticed.

He still jumps every time she touches him, or he touches her–some part of him is still afraid she’s going to disappear–but it’s getting a little easier. He feels horrible that he waited so long for this, that he let his fear control his actions. He can feel in her touch how much she’d needed the reassurance. He wants to tell her he’ll make it up to her, that he’d give her the moon if she wanted it, but every time he tries the words get stuck in his throat. Hopefully his nearness now is enough. It doesn’t mean that he’s okay, but maybe it means that he’s not irreparably broken.

And after the movie it’s good to chat with Steve about the latest attacks on the city, to hear Thor’s voice boom out across the room asking if he’s in need of assistance, to hear Bruce and Tony deep in conversation about their newest gizmo. Sam brings him a cup of coffee and Steve mutters under his breath about caffeine not being a good idea so late at night. It’s even okay when Tony wanders over and Steve absently brushes a kiss on his cheek. There’s a bit of a sting, a reminder that he’s alone, but it’s soothed when Nat sits up in front of him and he automatically starts braiding her hair. The normalcy of the activity grounds him, makes him feel almost like himself.

Even with James watching him from across the room.

He’d talked with James about _The Princess Bride_ once, back in the cell in the HYDRA base. They’d only known each other for a few hours then. He’d even done a few voices, shouting “Inconceivable!” and the famous Indigo Montoya line. James’s face had remained Winter Soldier blank. After he’d hit the highlights James had narrowed his eyes slightly and said, “That all comes from the same movie?” Worn and tired as he’d been, Clint had laughed with delight. “That’s the beauty of _The Princess Bride_. It’s the perfect movie, it’s got something for everyone.” James just kept up that stare. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Clint had grinned and said, “It’s a date.”

“What?” Clint comes out of the past with a start, realizing that someone’s been talking to him.

“Where are you, Legolas?” Tony asks with a wink. “Somehow I don’t think you’re here just now.”

Clint forces a smile onto his face. “Just thinking about the movie. Solid choice, even for you, Tin Man.”

Tony opens his mouth in what is clearly the prelude to an argument, but twin looks from Steve and Nat have him snapping it shut. “I was just asking if you wanted to come by the range tomorrow. I’ve got a few prototype arrows I thought you might like to play with.”

Clint can’t keep the needy, hopeful smile from his face. This has obviously been in the works for some time now, a plot to get him back to the Tower, but he doesn’t care. New arrows. _Any_ arrows, really. He’s been itching to shoot at something other than the walls in his apartment. There’s no challenge there, considering the size of the place. And he’s getting tired of fixing all the holes in the walls.

“That...that sounds good, Tony. Sounds real good.” It’s hard for him to get the words out, but once he does, he feels a weight lift off his chest.

It’s okay to be happy. It’s okay to do the things he loves.

He glances at James, sees the sad look on his face, and looks away. This whole thing is too complicated to untangle right now. But he doesn’t think the real James would look at him that way. Would he? James would want him to be happy. Safe and happy. Isn’t that why he left?

That’s what Clint’s convinced himself, anyway. That’s what he hopes.

That’s what he’s holding on to.

“Come by sometime after breakfast. Say, ten or so? That’ll give Red here enough time to bring you coffee and play with your furry friend.”

So apparently everyone knows Nat’s been checking in on him. He’s not surprised, really; now that he thinks about it, they’ve probably had meetings discussing ‘the Hawkeye problem.’ He makes himself nod, forces a small smile onto his lips. “Yeah, I can do that. Thanks, Tony.”

When Clint looks around the room he sees that every eye in the place is fixed on him. They’ve definitely been discussing him. When did it get so bad? _How_ did it get so bad? All he wants is to shoot his bow and hug his friends and feel normal again, to figure out where Clint Barton’s been hiding all this time and dig him back out again. Instead he gets crazy dreams and a guy no one else can see following him around looking like the guy he loves...who also happens to be out in the world somewhere, probably in all kinds of danger. Possibly recaptured by HYDRA.

How did he get so broken?

His hands start shaking, so he shoves them in his pockets before anyone notices. Natasha gives him a funny look, but keeps her thoughts to herself. “I think I need to go home,” he blurts out. “But I’ll be back tomorrow. It’s…” Clint stops, looks around at everyone, and has to take a breath so he doesn’t let his emotions break his voice. “It’s so good to see you all again, like this. That sounds so lame, but really, it’s just so fucking good.”

There are chuckles at that, and Clint smiles a little too.

Nat meets him at the elevator, a questioning look on her face.

“I can get myself home, you know,” he says. “I’m a big boy.”

She links her arm through his. “I know. But I’m going with you anyway.” It’s not a question, and he doesn’t have the energy to argue. She’d win anyway.

Over the next two weeks Clint eases himself back into life at the Tower. He still doesn’t stay overnight, but he tries to spend at least a little time there every day–on the range, in the gym, on the common floor. He even spends some time in the lab with Tony working on a tricky new arrow. He still doesn’t touch anyone but Natasha, but every day he feels more comfortable in their presence. And being on the range, having his bow in his hands...it’s like having part of his soul back.

He often overhears them talking about missions, and lately there are new stories about some odd vigilante squad that seems to be attacking HYDRA bases. They get intel about a base, but when they get there, there’s no trace of HYDRA, just a demolished building or empty bunker. After about a week Clint finally interrupts one of these conversations.

“Did you ever find the base in Buffalo?”

Bruce and Sam exchange looks. Natasha looks him straight in the eye.

“We found the building,” she says. “Right where you said it was. But it was empty. No sign of HYDRA. No sign they’d ever been there. We think we found the room you were held in, though. All a dull white, tiled floor and walls, nice set of shackles on the wall?”

“Sounds like the place,” Clint says. “Of course, they could have had quite a few similar guest accommodations. They’re very friendly guys, you know. Like to have company.”

“Right,” Nat says with a huff. “Actually, it was the only room like that we found. Which makes us wonder…” She hesitates, and _almost_ narrows her eyes, trying to figure out how to play the situation.

“Just ask, Nat. I’m not a mark.” Clint crosses his arms over his chest and stares her down until she growls.

“Fine. Who was in the other set of shackles, Barton? The big, heavy-duty set?”

He’s got to play dumb on this one. “What other shackles?” He makes his eyes wide and innocent and confused.

Natasha purses her lips. “There was a set like you described, made for ankles. But directly across from that, on the opposite wall, was a set of differently sized shackles, very heavy, very...strange. Like they were meant to hold someone...different.”

She’s choosing her words very carefully. Clint wonders if she knows something, or if she’s just trying to get him to give something away on his own. Either way, he’s not saying anything. “Sorry guys. I didn’t really pay much attention to anything but the pain in my head when I first woke up. And after that...well, when I wasn’t having crazy dreams, I mostly thought about what I would do if I had a chance to get away.”

“Crazy dreams?” Bruce asks.

Clint rubs at his scalp, ruffling his hair. “Yeah. Pretty much any time I fell asleep while I was there I had super vivid dreams. Nothing scary or anything, just stereo surround sound and ultra HD picture.” He shrugs. “Not so bad. Pretty weird, though.” Absolutely true, and just the thing to get you off the scent of the second set of shackles. He sees Nat out of the corner of his eye, and thinks, Well, for now anyway. Nat knows I’m evading.

But Bruce looks like he wants to start taking brain wave measurements, so Clint makes a hasty exit. He doesn’t actually have to be around for this bit of the conversation...does he?

One afternoon he wanders onto the common floor after his workout on the range to find Steve sitting at the counter. The area in front of him is littered with photographs, and he’s staring at one in his hand.

“Hey Cap,” Clint says. “You, ah, want to be alone?”

Steve shakes his head. “Nah, just spending some time in the past. Tony says I spend too much time there, but I can’t help it. Sometimes it seems like it was just yesterday I was back there…” His words trail off into nothing, and he’s off in his thoughts again. Clint sits down next to him and picks up a picture. He’s not surprised to see the Howling Commandos, but when he looks a little closer he gets the shock of his life.

James.

His arm–not silver back then, but living flesh–is slung around Steve’s shoulder.

“Bucky Barnes,” he whispers. “ _James_ Buchanan Barnes.”

“Yeah,” Steve says with a chuckle. “But only his ma called him James. Even Becca called him Bucky most of the time.”

“Becca?” Clint asks. He knows, but he has to hear it. He’s still trying to make himself understand this.

Steve paws through the pile until he comes up with a snapshot of a slightly younger James with a small, dark haired girl on his lap. They’re both laughing, like someone just told them the funniest joke they’d ever heard. “Becca. Bucky’s little sister. Cute as a button, and such a little firecracker.” Steve smiles, and it’s a smile Clint’s never seen. There’s something special about _before_ , Clint thinks.

“Tell me about Bucky,” Clint says, entirely without thinking.

“Bucky was…” Steve starts, then falls silent. He tries again, “We were…” And then Clint sees the tear on Steve’s cheek.

Again without thinking he puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder. He feels Steve’s muscles tense up then relax into his touch, and he wonders if Steve realizes he doesn’t touch people anymore. Probably. Steve pays attention to his team.

“It’s okay,” Clint says. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Steve’s got a faraway look on his face. Clint recognizes it, it’s the same look James wore when he talked about home, about his ma and Becca and– _Christ_. Stevie. Of course. How did he never make the connection? He’d seen the pictures before. The Howling Commandos were in the history books. He’d even had the _comic_ books! The whole thing is making his head spin.

“He was my best friend, from the time we were kids. I was always getting into scrapes and he was always there, getting me out of them. Back then I wondered why he didn’t just grab me and shake me and tell me to knock it off. I mean, he told me to stop the fights, but he never really said it with any kind of intensity, you know? I knew he was just saying what his ma told him he should say. I think he was proud of me, fighting for what I believed in even though I never could win. Mostly I was just an idiot, really–a sickly, banged up idiot. But Bucky didn’t seem to mind.” Steve smiles then, and it breaks what’s left of Clint’s heart.

“He was...special to you.” It’s not a question, but Steve answers anyway.

“He was everything to me.”

Clint turns away. Steve is too good at seeing things in people, and Clint doesn’t want anyone to see the brokenness in him. Because he understands now. If James ever comes back he won’t just see Clint. He’s going to be faced with Clint _and_ Steve, and the choice between them...well, that won’t be a choice at all. Because how could James possibly choose Clint over someone he’s loved for nearly a century?

Steve’s talking, asking him something, but Clint’s somewhere else, not hearing, trying not to think, focusing all his energy on keeping his face as normal as possible. “Gotta go, Cap,” he says. His voice sounds foreign even to him, but it’s the best he can do. He makes his way to the elevator on auto-pilot, and when he gets inside he just stares at the closed doors until JARVIS asks, “Agent Barton?” He jumps, then says, “I just wanna go home, Jay.”

The elevator starts to move.

Clint gets back to his place in Bed-Stuy somehow. He crawls into bed, calls Kate to see if she’ll take Lucky for a little while, then turns off his phone.

He stays inside, losing track of time, refusing to see anyone. He stares at the picture of James he stole from Steve. And when James is there–standing on the stairs, sitting at the foot of his bed, leaning against the doorframe–Clint looks for the James from the photo in the man before him. How did the smiling boy become the man with the heavy heart?

He knows the answer, but he doesn’t want to think about it. HYDRA. Years of torture. Brainwashing. No friends. No one at all.

Clint wants to hold him. Keep him safe. Press kisses and words of love into his skin until all his old wounds are healed, no matter how many lifetimes it takes.

But every time he thinks it he makes himself see the truth: that Steve is the best one to heal James– _Bucky_. They have the past in common, and the serum, and the having to learn the future. And they’ve been meant to be for so, so long. Since long before Clint was even a thought. It’s like...yeah. It really is like a fairy tale.

Too bad _he_ doesn’t get a handsome prince.

Natasha comes every morning. He never sees her–he couldn’t take that hurt, hopeful look in her eyes–but she always comes at the same time so he makes sure he’s got his aids in so he can hear her voice. She opens the door he barely bothers to lock anymore, brings in the smell of cool breezes and autumn leaves and coffee and says, “I’ve got your coffee, Barton.” He never answers, never makes a move towards the stairs to see her, never moves at all. Just keeps staring at the ceiling, or the wall, or out the window, wallowing in his misery. He knows he’s wallowing. He knows he’s depressed, and sad, and sometimes even angry. But recognizing his feelings doesn't stop them.

He thinks about Tony sometimes, feels bad that he got someone else mixed up in all this. At least he and Tony can console each other. Lost love, and all that. They’re never going to fall into each other's arms–or anything else–but they’re friends, and they’ll be able to talk about the sting. Or maybe not talk. Just get drunk together or something. Tony’s a good one to get drunk with, he’s always got the best booze. It never takes long to dull the ache when you drink with Tony.

That little voice inside–the one that sounds like Nat–berates him, telling him alcohol doesn’t solve any problems. But he tells it to shut up. He doesn’t need logic right now.

He needs solace.

AT THE SAFEHOUSE

Clint wishes he had a beer. It’s getting cooler outside, but still he sits next to the grill while he makes dinner most evenings, and a beer in his hand would make it feel almost normal. He could probably drive into town for supplies–it’s been nearly two weeks since he slipped from HYDRA’s grip, but every time he thinks about leaving he gets a panicky feeling in his stomach. What if James comes back while he’s gone?

He won’t. Clint knows he won’t. James is gone, and he’s not coming back.

But a stupid, stubborn part of him won’t give up hope.

So he’s holding himself here in a kind of purgatory. He’s got no way to go backward, to go back to the day when James was here, when everything was perfect. But he can’t bring himself to go forward either, to so-called normal life at the Tower, to suiting up and avengering and pretending all this didn’t happen. Besides, he’s seeing things. Well, _a_ thing. So he either has to pretend he doesn’t see James everywhere or tell everyone everything and see the way his friends look at him when they realize he’s going mad.

And he’s starting to wonder himself.

Had any of it been real?

The more he thinks about it, the more it seems unreal. Impossible. Waking up in a room with the Winter Soldier? Falling into some sort of friendship with him, then falling _in love_ with him? It’s much more like the dreams he’s been having than reality. He’s just a regular guy with a gimmick. What does he have to offer a badass supersoldier?

What could someone like James ever see in him?

He looks at the steak sizzling on the grill. He wishes for a beer again. Or maybe six. If he had enough maybe he could forget.

Maybe James, currently leaning against the tree with a hole punched through the trunk, would disappear for good.

PRESENT DAY

Clint knows James is there before he opens his eyes. It’s the same as knowing where his arrow hits without looking. The same as calculating the path of an arrow and a moving target and himself falling through the air all at the same time, plus wind resistance and everything else, all in a split second. Maybe James is just part of his senses now, a new one he’s never gonna shake.

He’s standing in the shadows on the far side of the window, so Clint’s looking through morning brightness to see him. He’s beautiful as ever but somehow careworn, haggard, like he’s been fighting towards Clint the past couple months instead of just living in Clint’s mind.

“Mornin’ sunshine,” Clint intones, his voice completely devoid of any emotion. It’s not the first time he’s opened his eyes to see James staring at him. Unless today is the day he dies, it won’t be the last.

What he really wants to say is, Shouldn’t you be haunting your _real_ boyfriend? But that would hurt too much, so he just sighs.

James points at the aids on the bedside table, then mimes putting them in his own ears. Clint makes a derisive noise. “Why? It’s not like you’re big with the talkin’.” James gives him an odd look, then rubs his open hand in a small circle on his chest. The sign for _please_.

Clint squints at him. “Well. That’s new.” Alright then. He drags himself to a sitting position, then slowly slips the aids over his ears, one at a time.

When they’re settled, James gives him a small smile. He doesn’t move out of the shadows, though, just stands looking at him. After what seems like an hour of staring in silence he opens his mouth.

“I missed you,” he says, in that low, sweet voice of his.

Clint blinks. He looks around the room, wondering if this is a new dream. He gives his arm a brutal pinch.

“Ouch! Fuck, that hurts!”

James looks startled. “What are you doin’ to yourself, sweetheart?” He’s moving as he speaks, rushing to crouch in front of Clint.

“You– but– I don’t–” Clint’s brain can’t find the connections, can’t make sense of what’s going on. James doesn’t talk. He never talks. He just stands there, looking at him. Sometimes he smiles. Sometimes he walks with him. But he never, ever talks.

“You alright, darlin’?” James looks like he’s ready to scoop Clint up in his arms and carry him to a hospital. But of course that’ll never happen; if they touch James will disappear. It’s wonderful hearing James’s voice, though. Clint wants him to keep talking. Whatever this is, he wants it to go on.

“I’ve never been better,” he says, shaking his head no.

Then he passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd LOVE to hear your thoughts on this chapter!! Even if you just scream at me for the whole bit with Steve, I'm okay with that.......
> 
> *hides*


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you...real?” Clint feels foolish asking. Fake James from his brain would lie to make him comfortable. He has no idea what real James would do. Will do. If real James is even a possible thing.
> 
> His head hurts just thinking about this.
> 
> James presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Clint is almost ashamed of the needy sound he makes at the feel of James’s lips after all this time. “I’m real as you are, sweetheart.” He kisses the other corner of Clint’s mouth. “I’m sorry I left you alone so long. I never wanted to hurt you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thursday!! It's been a long and exhausting day, but i'm _very_ excited to share this chapter with you. It was a bear to write, but it'll probably be a little easier to read. 😉
> 
> Love, Lira 🏹

The taste of strawberries lingers on his tongue when he opens his eyes, a remnant of the dream.

But it was just a dream, right? James only lives in the dreamspace. That’s where he talks, where his smiles are true, where he kisses Clint with reckless abandon.

“There you are,” says a voice.

James’s voice.

Clint doesn’t want to open his eyes. Because he’s still dreaming, so when he opens his eyes he’ll see James surrounded by dancing penguins, or dressed only in flowers, or riding a pterodactyl. (That had been a particularly weird one. He hadn’t wanted to go to sleep again the next night.)

But then he feels a hand cupping the side of his face and he’s surprised into opening his eyes.

James smiles at him, running his thumb gently along Clint’s cheekbone. “You scared me, doll. I expected you to yell, or punch me, or maybe tell me to get the hell out. I didn’t think you’d hurt yourself.” His eyes betray his concern, and Clint truly sees a hint of James’s age for the first time; it’s not that he looks like an old man, exactly, but he looks like he’s carrying the weight of years on his shoulders. Too many years. A chill creeps up Clint’s spine.

“Are you...real?” Clint feels foolish asking. Fake James from his brain would lie to make him comfortable. He has no idea what real James would do. Will do. If real James is even a possible thing.

His head hurts just thinking about this.

James presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Clint is almost ashamed of the needy sound he makes at the feel of James’s lips after all this time. “I’m real as you are, sweetheart.” He kisses the other corner of Clint’s mouth. “I’m sorry I left you alone so long. I never wanted to hurt you.”

He moves to kiss Clint again, this time square on the mouth, and Clint almost lets him, almost lets everything just fall away.

But then he remembers everything. The note. The knife. The rain. The dreams.

Seeing James everywhere.

So Clint puts up his arms, pushes James away. “What the hell, James? You just left! You just– _fuck_ , that was one of the best days of my life, and then I woke up and you were just _gone_.” He pushes James out of his way so he can storm around the room. “The only things I had to prove you were real were the knife and note on the table and the hand-shaped bruise on my thigh. And that faded. I burned the note one day in a fit of anger, so that’s gone too. So all I have is your damn knife, which I have to put under my pillow when I sleep.” He pushes past James again, to reach under his pillow and grab the knife. The grip fits perfectly into his hand now, it’s so worn from his fingers and palm. He pulls it from its sheath and shoves it in James’s face; not a threat, but an accusation. “So you don’t get to just waltz in here and kiss me and expect everything to be okay, James. Because it’s–what the fuck are you smiling about?” he says, both gaining and losing steam in his rage-fueled rant.

James’s smile is soft and warm. “It’s just...you said my name. Twice.” His smile gets bigger, and his eyes twinkle. “I kinda like it.”

Something inside Clint twists. He can’t figure out if he wants to fight James or fuck him. Maybe both. He slams the knife back into the sheath just in case.

“No,” he spits out, harsh. “You don’t get to waltz back in here, all twinkles and charm, and make everything okay. It’s _not_ okay. I’ve spent two months wondering if you were alive or dead. Two months seeing your...your fucking _ghost_ everywhere. Two months of hell, reliving every moment to figure out what I could have possibly done wrong. Wondering if the sex was bad, or if I pushed too hard, or if I never should have kissed you in the first place, or if you just decided I wasn’t the right guy after all.” He’s advancing on James with every added accusation, backing him up against the wall, and this last hurts him more than it seems to hurt James. It doesn’t matter. He’s had all his hurt bottled up inside for so long, it almost feels good to get it out. There’s a voice inside his head again–Nat’s voice, as usual–telling him to be careful, that he doesn’t really want to hurt James, but right now all that matters is getting it out. 

James’s eyes are wide. He’s not showing fear exactly, but there’s a vulnerability that tugs at Clint’s heart. “I’m sorry,” James says again, softer this time. His back is against the wall now, his face just inches from Clint’s, and he has to look up to see into Clint’s eyes. “I know it’s not enough, but I truly am sorry. If I could go back…” He hesitates, then says quickly, “Well, I’d do the same thing, but I’d explain better. I should have made you understand. I was protecting you. It was the best–”

“No!” Clint shouts the word, and shoves himself all the way into James’s space. Their mouths are so close together they’re practically kissing already, but there’s nothing at all sensual in Clint’s body language. He’s spitting like a jungle cat, ready to pounce, to slash with his fangs, his claws. “Fuck, James, don’t you understand? You don’t get to decide what’s best for me. I do! I’m a big boy, capable of deciding these things for myself. We worked together when we escaped from HYDRA. We made it to the safehouse together, we even helped each other in the kitchen. We talked about things in bed, about what was okay and what wasn’t, and neither one of us pushed. _And that’s the way it should be_. Not one person taking charge and deciding what’s right for the other.”

Understanding dawns in James’s eyes, and with it comes pain. James actually clutches at his abdomen, as if Clint had been speaking daggers and not just words. He slumps against the wall, momentarily stunned.

Clint slowly relaxes his stance until he’s just standing in front of him, all the venom and malice gone. He reaches out to James, tucking errant strands of wild brown hair behind an ear, and says, “Oh, James. Just...just don’t do it again, okay?” He can feel tears stinging his eyes, and tries to blink them back before they fall. “I’m glad you’re back,” he says, his lips quirking up in a small smile. “I have no idea how you found my apartment, but I don't even care. I’m just glad you’re here.”

James gives him a look that somehow conveys both ‘you’re an idiot’ and ‘i love you’ at the same time. Or maybe it’s ‘you’re an idiot but you’re _my_ idiot.’ Nat gives him that look.

“You’re not that hard to find. I waited around that monstrosity of a tower and followed you from there. I hoped you’d come out, that you weren’t spending your nights there. I’d have gotten in eventually, but it would have taken a very long time, and I–” He stops, looks a little embarrassed. “Well, I missed you.”

Clint can’t hold back anymore. Part of him _wants_ to stay mad, wants to hold onto the anger and hurt and brokenness that’s been holding him captive since that morning all those weeks ago.

But it doesn’t matter right now. That little Nat voice in his head is reminding him it’s going to matter later, and it might matter a lot, but he mutters, “Shut up, Nat, it’s time for reunion sex with my boyfriend.”

James’s head snaps up. “Who’s Na–wait, boyfriend?”

“Of all the words in that sentence, that’s the one you locked onto?” Clint is in James’s space now, crowding him. His eyes are locked onto James’s, and James is barely breathing. His eyes are wide, pupils blown; he’s ready to give himself to Clint.

And Clint is ready to take what he’s been needing for so long.

“Yes. Boyfriend. In a little bit we’re going to talk through what happened and then we’re going to figure out how I can keep you; you don’t think I’m letting go of you again after you left me once, do you?” A flush rises on James’s face, either in shame at leaving or at the thought of being called ‘boyfriend’–either way, Clint loves it. “But first I’m going to kiss you properly, and then we’re going to get you out of those clothes and into my bed, because I don’t think I can take one more second of not touchi–”

James attacks then, his lips capturing Clint’s in a searing kiss.

At first it truly is an attack, the two of them battling for dominance, hands and arms and teeth and tongues pushing for every advantage. But then Clint remembers what he’s been missing–the soft, silky feel of James’s hair slipping between his fingers, the roughness of stubble against his palm and his lips, the way he gets a soft of tingly shock when he feels James’s metal hand pressing into his skin. So he stops fighting and just lets their bodies mold together. At almost the same time James relaxes into him, and their battle becomes one of long, drawn out kisses. Soft and gentle. A different kind of battle, this time to see how close they can get to each other.

They both win.

“Fuck I missed you,” Clint murmurs into James’s hair. James is peppering tiny kisses along Clint’s collarbone. Breathing deep, trying to keep himself under some semblance of control, he smells James’s shampoo–strawberries. A small chuckle escapes his lips, even as James spins them around and presses Clint against the wall and he lets out all his air in a gasp. “James,” he manages. “There’s a–” He’s honestly not sure what it is, it’s the hilt of _something_ , so he just flaps his hand in the general direction of his right side and hopes James will get the message.

“Oh,” he says, taking a step back. “Right.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the Beretta M9 from the holster across his chest. “Sorry about that.”

“That is unfairly hot,” Clint says. He puts away for further contemplation the way he is incredibly turned on by James with a gun in his hand. The look in James’s eyes says he knows exactly what he’s doing when he reaches into the other side of his jacket and pulls out the blade. Clint can’t see it, but he can feel his eyes widen, his breath catch.

James grins, slow, almost predatory. “Maybe I should…” He raises his eyebrows instead of finishing the question. Clint nods, too fast, and James laughs. Nodding towards the bed, he drawls, “If you wanna get more comfortable, darlin’...”

Clint doesn’t even think, just scrambles for the bed, sitting on the edge. He’s facing James, who slowly pulls off his jacket. 

The sight of the holsters crossing James’s chest, even empty holsters, goes straight to Clint’s dick. He makes a squeaking noise.

James freezes, one arm still in the jacket. He winks at Clint, who squeaks again. “Not fair,” says Clint, his voice catching in his throat. “You know just what you’re doing to me so you keep doing it _more_.”

“Well, _yeah_ ,” James says, as if the concept is obvious. “It makes me happy, knowing what my boyfriend likes.”

Well, that’s it, Clint thinks. I’m gonna die today. But it’s gonna be so, so good. I don’t even care.

James pulls the jacket all the way off and tosses it over the back of a nearby chair. He's wearing a thin black t-shirt that doesn’t leave the muscles underneath to the imagination, and is criss-crossed with black leather holsters. He pulls another gun from the small of his back, a Glock 17. Slightly smaller than the Beretta, easier to carry there. There are small blades on his right wrist, made for slashing and throwing. He removes everything, one by one, adding each weapon carefully to the pile.

It’s easily the most errotic striptease Clint has ever seen, and all James has actually taken off is his jacket.

There’s another knife on his right arm, this one bigger. Clint’s starting to wonder how he moves, all strapped and bristling with weapons, and his dick–already hard and leaking–twitches again. He pointedly sits on his hands to keep from touching himself; he knows it won’t take much at all to set him off, and he doesn’t want to come because of his own hand. Now with James standing two feet away, looking like some kind of legend.

There’s another M9 at his right ankle and another–bigger–knife at his left. There’s a knife at his right thigh but his left thigh is mysteriously empty; Clint’s gaze wanders momentarily to the blade he’s been carrying all these weeks, and he wonders if James didn’t replace it as some sort of penance or remembrance. But then James starts to unbutton his trousers and all other thoughts fade.

Through suddenly dry lips Clint just manages to say, “I thought you were just doing weapons.” It’s not like they’d had a briefing or anything, but it had been understood. Hadn’t it?

James smirks at him.

Clint looks down then back up into James’s laughing eyes. “Wait, you wear a... _underneath_? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Laughing outright now, James pulls a thin knife from what Clint hopes is a holster strapped to the inside of his left thigh. He shrugs with a wink. “You never know when something might come...up.”

“That was terrible,” Clint says with a groan, but he’s laughing too. The laugh is cut short, just dies in his throat, when James lets his pants fall to the floor.

It’s the holster strapped to his thigh that does it; the thigh is perfect already but somehow the black straps against the straining muscle ping something inside him and he’s a mess, biting his lip and reaching out to touch before he even knows what he’s doing. James moves closer, close enough that Clint’s fingers can run along the strap, along nylon and skin, and his brain whites out for a second.

“James,” he croaks, and James’s laugh is low and seductive and ignites something low in Clint’s belly.

But he’s not close enough. So he clambers off the bed to kneel in front of James, eyes fixed on the thigh and empty holster in front of him. James sucks in air through his teeth as Clint reaches out and releases the clasps holding the holster in place. Slipping it off to sling it onto the rather substantial pile of weapons, Clint runs his hands up and down James’s thighs, reveling in every gasp and moan he gets in return. When one of Clint’s hands snakes up the inside of James’s thigh, teasingly close to his still-clothed dick, he growls, deep in his chest. 

“Enough,” James says, his voice low and menacing. 

Clint looks up at him. “What do you want?” he asks, his voice breathy.

“Just you,” James says. He pulls Clint to his feet, and although his voice and action are rough, his eyes and hands–one on his chest, the other on the small of his back–are gentle. “Only you, darlin’.”

And oh, there it is again, the pet name going straight to Clint’s core. He revels in it; he feels known, feels held, feels _loved_. “I’m all yours, sweetheart,” Clint says, and James’s spreading smile is all he needs to lean in and kiss James again, slow and sweet, but with a growing intensity that leaves him gasping for breath when James breaks away.

“Bed,” Clint says, and without preamble James scoops him into his arms, bridal style, and launches them both onto the bed.

Clint has a fraction of a second to think this might not be the best idea before they crash onto the bed–James caging his arms around Clint to protect him on impact–and several of the bed’s legs shatter, leaving the bed frame and mattress canted at a crazy angle.

Eyes wide with shock and confusion, James first checks the room for threats before he realizes that he’s the one who broke the bed. “Your face!” Clint wheezes through his laughter, and James growls again, but this time it’s not at all menacing. It sounds like a toddler having a tantrum. “My bed is a piece of crap, it’s already got a pile of bricks for one of its legs from when I moved it up here in the first place. It does fine as long as you don’t fly at it from the stratosphere with supersoldier-strength boosters, but I guess that’s maybe something I have to worry about now.” He wipes tears from his eyes from laughing so hard, and James finally gives in and smiles too, although a bit ruefully.

“Oh shit!” Clint yells, then scrambles for the edge of the bed. He grabs one of James’s knives and uses the hilt to bang on the wall in a pattern: bang, pause, bang-bang-bang, pause, bang. He shrugs at James. “This apartment isn’t soundproof, and…” He looks around, like maybe the rest of his thought is hiding somewhere in his room. “Anyway, bad stuff’s happened here a few times. With some pretty bad guys. If the neighbors heard the crash–and they probably heard that crash at the Tower, that was a good one–that was a signal to them that I’m just being my usual accident prone self and they shouldn’t call for help.”

James looks impressed. “Your neighbors care enough to call the police?”

“We take care of each other...we’re a pretty tight-knit little family here in this building. I–uh, I mean, we–we’ve had to fight for it, I guess.” Clint doesn’t really want to go into the whole owning the building and track-suit mafia thing right now. It’s a long and rather involved story. And he’d much rather be involved in other things.

Looking around, looking disappointed, James says, “I guess we should fix the bed.”

Clint locks his arms and legs around James, slotting their bodies tightly together, pulling James’s face right close to his. “You are _not_ leaving this bed, James Barnes.”

Several looks flash across James’s face in the span of a breath–puzzlement, resignation, fear, relief, the knowledge that there’s a long conversation in their future–but he lands on a slow, easy smile. “I’m not leavin’ this bed,” he drawls.

“At least our heads aren’t on a down slope,” Clint says with a wink. “Can’t have blood flowing the wrong way.” And just like that he’s reminded of the rock hard erection that’s making him half insane, and he can’t wait to lose the rest of his mind.

As long as James is here with him he doesn’t mind if he’s going crazy.

His eyes dart around the room. He hasn’t seen the other James since he woke up to the _real_ James–the one he can touch and taste and talk to and oh God maybe even _fuck_ –but that doesn’t mean he’s not around, lurking somewhere in the shadows, waiting to remind him that his mind is slowly breaking into pieces.

But James’s hands are moving on his body and he forgets about everything else. Hands creep under his t-shirt, pushing it upward to find skin at the same time Clint is doing the same to James, and their arms are tangling, getting mixed up with each other, and they laugh a little at the almost awkwardness, but in the end they have their shirts off and Clint is on his back again with James on top of him and oh, James is _marking_ him, sucking little bruises across his chest, along his collar bones, on his arms, on his neck, and the sensations are exquisite.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, please James, don’t stop,” he hears, and then he realizes it’s his voice, babbling, begging, and then he laughs. It’s wonderful, being with James, being held, and they still have their pants on. His hips are bucking up, trying to find friction, but James is holding him down so firmly he can barely move.

“Almost time, darlin’, almost time. Shh, I’ve got you.” And then Clint sees that James is biting his lower lip, and he’s shaking slightly, and Clint realizes they’re both feeling needy and strained. He catches Clint’s eye and he gets an almost shy look. “Can I…” He stops, kisses Clint softly, then goes on. “Can I fuck you? Please? Been thinkin’ about it since that night in the safehouse.”

Clint has to steady himself, take deep breaths and get firm control of his body before he lets himself speak. “Yeah,” he says, looking right into those bright blue eyes. “Yes, James. _Please_ , yes.”

They share another kiss, gentle but charged with what’s to come. Clint can’t stop smiling, he’s just so fucking happy. His whole body tingles with anticipation, like tiny lightning bolts flickering across his skin. “You said you’ve never done this before,” Clint says when he gets enough breath to speak. He tucks a stray lock of James’s hair behind his ear. “Do you know–”

“I know what I’m doing.” James’s blush is beautiful, Clint wants to kiss every bit of his face. “I mean, I wasn’t raised in a monastery or anything, I heard stuff. I was in the Army. And I _read_...” He’s really red now, absolutely adorable. “I mean, I’ve been reading a bit since I last saw you. The internet...it’s a useful thing.”

Clint takes pity on James’s blushing, bumbling efforts and just says, “There’s lube in the drawer next to the bed.” James is scrambling for it before Clint finishes the sentence. “It’s a good thing we didn’t break the table too. We’d be crawling around on the floor looking for it and I don’t think I could take that right now.”

James is back with a tube of lube in his hand and a gleam in his eye. “I know what this is for.”

“G-good.” The word gets caught in Clint’s throat, along with all the rest of his thoughts. His whole world has narrowed to the bubble of two men and a broken bed.

“Good,” James echoes. 

Now that he has it, James seems unconcerned about the lube; instead he occupies himself with driving Clint out of his mind. Lips and tongue and teeth and fingertips tease every part of Clint’s abdomen James can reach. Clint pants, then keens, and still James teases. He pays a lot of attention to Clint’s nipples, seeming to enjoy the noises Clint makes; in retaliation Clint tugs on James’s hair, earning a moan of either pleasure or pain–maybe both–of his own.

Tugging on James’s hair again, Clint pants, “Please. Can’t take much more…”

James smiles into Clint’s skin. “I feel like I’ve heard that somewhere before.”

“Brat,” Clint says. But then he starts pleading again, and James actually laughs.

“Alright, alright. So impatient.” And then James starts tugging Clint’s boxers down his thighs, and oh, Clint wants to scream about the deliberate slowness but James seems determined to shatter him into a thousand pieces so instead he bites his lower lip and lets himself look at the beauty that is James Barnes. He’s being so slow, so careful, so gentle. Clint feels...precious. Treasured.

The boxers are gone, whisked away to somewhere else, and James hitches Clint’s knees up a bit and smiles up at him, gesturing for the lube back. When he gets it a strange look comes over his face as he looks back and forth from one hand to the other. Clint’s laugh is light and sweet. “Doesn’t matter to me, baby. Guess it just depends on how much you want to be able to feel.”

That decides it for him; Clint watches, anticipation growing, as he drizzles a generous portion of lube on the calloused fingers of his right hand. “Ready, darlin’?” he asks, and Clint has to take a few more slow, deep breaths before he can answer.

“Been waiting for so long, James.” Clint smiles, to show it’s okay–but bites his lip to show James had better hurry himself along.

James doesn’t keep him waiting any longer. There’s a coolness and a pressure and then Clint’s hands open and close reflexively, looking for something to grasp, something to steady himself. “Oh,” says James. It’s a surprised sound, a wonder-filled sound. His eyes are glassy, his gaze far off, but he doesn’t lose his focus. His finger moves in and out, slow and tentative at first but then with more purpose as he works to get Clint ready for him. When he brushes against Clint’s prostate Clint keens. James kisses Clint’s knee, whispers, “Liked that, sweetheart?” Clint just stares into James’s eyes and nods, not trusting his voice to make words without cracking or squeaking. James does it a few more times, and Clint’s sure he’s just doing it to see how Clint reacts.

It’s fine with Clint. It’s fan-fucking-tastic.

“More. More, James. _Fuck_ , more.”

James kisses Clint’s other knee, and a few inches up the inside of his thigh. “Bossy, Clint. Very bossy.” But he complies, adding some more lube and then, with a bit of effort, another finger.

That’s not what Clint wanted, not really, but it’s still good. So good. And again James has that look of awe on his face, like he can’t believe he’s in this place this time with this man.

Clint knows the feeling.

After a few minutes Clint says, “I’m good James. I’m good. Fuck me please. Please, baby? I need you so bad, need you inside me.”

Stilling his hand but not removing it, James carefully moves up Clint’s body so he can give him a gentle kiss on the mouth. “Patience, darlin’. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Won’t hurt. I promise.” Clint’s feeling a little wild; he’s like a downed power line, snapping and sparking with nowhere to truly send all its energy.

“Shh,” James says, holding both his hand and his gaze. “We’re almost there.”

And then Clint hears the strain in James’s voice, the edge, the ache, and remembers he’s not the only one skirting the boundaries of _please_ and _now_.

“James, are you–” Clint starts to ask, but then James adds another finger and every thought Clint has ever had falls out of his head. He idly wonders if they’ll ever come back, but then he decides he doesn’t much care.

“Fuck, James, that’s–” But he can’t think of any words, so he just makes happy, squeaky noises, and James smiles at him, relentless. And relentless. He doesn’t know how long it lasts, the fingers fucking in and out of him, opening him up, but it feels like hours, or days. He just wants to come, and James is very carefully avoiding giving him any kind of release. He wants to wait for James to be inside him anyway, but his mind is fractured, splintered, broken in the best way possible.

James is _here_. James is _touching_ him. He can feel breath against his thigh, can hear soft encouragements, can see the glint in his eye. Clint rolls his head to the side, somehow tearing his eyes away, and is jarred to see another James. He doesn’t look jealous, or angry, or even all that interested. He just looks... _there_. He’s leaning against the doorframe, flipping a knife over and over again. He glances up from time to time to watch the proceedings on the bed, but mostly he just watches the silver blade flash in the sunlight.

“Where’d you go, darlin’?” James–the real James?–looks a little broken himself, and Clint realizes he’s worried. He can’t let himself think about his messed up life right now, he realizes. He’s got to be here, with James.

“I’m here,” he manages to say. He manages a small smile, too, and then a wink. “Just tryin’ to hold myself together while you take your sweet ti-aaaaiiiii!” His word turns into a shriek as James pulls out of him all at once, and he’s left with an empty feeling. In a moment James is crowding his space, kissing his cheeks, his mouth, his neck, his chest.

“James,” Clint pants in between kisses. “James, love, you still..have pants on.” It’s a weird sense of deja vu, flashes of the night at the safehouse but somehow not at all the same.

“Right,” James says, and then there’s a tearing noise, and Clint feels James’s dick rubbing against his own.

Clint stares in astonishment. “James. Someday we have to talk about your treatment of underpants. Do you just carry an unlimited supply? Or do you steal them as you go?”

Grinning, James says, “As you may recall, the first pair was actually yours. This pair was one I stole from a HYDRA safehouse. Any other questions?

Many, Clint thinks, but he just grins back and says, “If you don’t fuck me right now I’m going to dull all your knife blades.”

James actually looks stricken at the thought. Clint laughs and pulls him into another kiss. “I’d never,” he murmurs, running his fingers through James’s hair. “But please, James. Please…”

It takes a bit of maneuvering, but in a moment James is inside him, slowly pushing deeper and deeper, and the look on his face is well worth the wait. “Oh, Clint, this is...oh. God, I can’t–I can’t even–Clint!”

“I got you,” Clint says, gripping James’s thighs, grounding him. “Just look at me, James. I’m here. I’m here.” Most of Clint’s brain wants to be doing some screaming of its own, (James please move please move you feel fucking amazing but please for the love of everything please _move_!) but he’s holding onto that one tiny shred of clarity so they don’t just both lose it. They can do it again, but not for the first time, right? So he’s trying to help them both last more than five seconds, which almost sends him into a fit of giggles.

Their eyes meet, and Clint says softly, “Can you move now?”

“I think so,” James says, and he does. Slow at first, then faster, finding a rhythm. Clint’s breath comes in gasps, punched out of him by James punching into him. It’s so beautiful, the sight of James above him, all muscle and grace, all his perfect power being used to bring the two of them such intense pleasure. His face is a mix of concentration and pleasure, and Clint wants to lock it into his memory to remember forever. The set of his jaw, the slight upturn to his lips, the shine in his eye. Not to mention the sunlight glinting on his silvery arm and the way his hair falls across his face. The whole picture is perfect, to Clint’s eye.

To Clint’s _heart._

The sparks of pleasure start to white out Clint’s brain, and soon James gasps, “I’m close, doll, so close.” He wraps his hand around Clint’s dick and that’s all it takes, just the slight pressure, and Clint is gone, spasming and calling out James’s name, his back arching and hands clenched tight in the sheets. James is right behind him, mere moments, and when he’s done, when he collapses onto Clint–careful not to hurt him, to land half on and half off him–when he looks into Clint’s eyes, he looks like he’s found peace for the first time in his life.

They stay that way for long minutes, tangled in each other's arms. The silence isn’t awkward, just quiet, restful. They both need to catch their breath, to find their figurative footing, after that.

“We should clean up,” Clint says finally.

“Shh,” James says. “Feels good.”

“You’ll regret it later. I know I will.”

“Spoilsport.”

James rolls off the bed, which is made easier by the already tilted mattress. Clint makes to follow but James motions for him to stay. “I got it.” He stands by the bed and stretches, his back popping, and Clint is treated to quite the view. He hums his appreciation and James winks.

Somehow Clint isn’t surprised that James knows exactly where the bathroom is, and where the washcloths are, without asking. He comes back with a warm, wet cloth, gently cleans Clint up, and tosses it into the hamper across the room, where it barely hangs on the edge. Clint snorts. “And you call yourself a sniper.”

Eyebrow raised, James says, “And you could do better?”

“Every time, baby. Every time. I never–” He’s got some more trash talk planned, but James shuts him up with a kiss. Overall he’s okay with that.

They kiss some more, easy and slow, then James says, “I know you just woke up, but I’ve been walking for two days. Do you think you could sleep a little? I could use a nap.”

Clint thinks about his nights, how he hardly sleeps at all anymore.

“I could sleep,” he says.

They curl up together, James’s back pushed up against Clint’s chest. As much as Clint loves being held by James, right now he needs to just hold on. As tight as he can.

Just before James falls asleep, Clint murmurs, “I love you. I–I meant to say it before. But you were gone in the morning, so I couldn’t. I just...want you to know.”

James doesn’t say anything for a long time, and Clint is sure he’s just going to let it go, to fall asleep without even mentioning it, or maybe pretend he was asleep the whole time. Is he thinking about Steve? Is he regretting this whole thing? Clint’s starting to panic when finally James says, “I hardly remember what it is, being loved. Loving someone else. That was a lifetime ago. No, it was _too many_ lifetimes ago. Every time they wiped my brain they took another lifetime away. But...well, I think maybe I could try.” Clint’s heart is fluttering in his chest when James takes Clint’s hand and pulls it to his lips, brushing a soft kiss against his knuckles. “Maybe you can teach me?”

“I am a pretty good teacher,” Clint says, teasing. “As you may recall.” He pulls James close, burying his face in his neck, losing himself in the smell of his strawberry shampoo. “I think we can figure it out together.”

James nods, and Clint knows he’s smiling even though he can’t see his face.

James is the first to fall asleep. After a little while Clint sits up and pulls the aids out of his ears. He settles back behind James, pulling a blanket up over both of them, pulling himself as close as possible.

He knows he won’t sleep. He hardly sleeps at all anymore, but that’s not the point. How could he sleep now? The last time he fell asleep with James, James was gone when he woke up and his whole nightmare started. So instead he just holds his love, holds him close, and lets him get his rest.

It takes awhile for him to realize he’s whispering. It’s the same words over and over.

“Please don’t leave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comments on chapter eleven gave me such joy, you have no idea what you did to me. THANK YOU. My Tuesday was a very hard day at work, but I kept getting ao3 comment emails, and every single one was a bright spot. Like sunshine during a blizzard!!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re the real one, aren’t you.” He smiles at James, reaching out to touch his face. The stubble under his fingertips sends shivers down his spine. “Yeah, you have to be the real one. I never could touch any of the others. I kept trying even though it never worked, and they always disappeared.”
> 
> He thought James would smile, would be happy, would maybe even kiss him or want a repeat of that morning. But James just looks...concerned.
> 
> “Sweetheart.” The word is slow and sweet, but it’s not meant to entice, and Clint knows it. “Look, we should have talked last night, but I was too wrapped up in...well.” He smiles, a slight blush pinking his cheeks. They both know exactly what he’d been ‘wrapped up in.’ “But the way you’re talkin’ just now...I’m more than a little worried about you. Are you alright?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday! Ha, I _never_ say happy Monday, maybe that's why I decided to post on Mondays....so I can say it's UNSHACKLED day!! 💜
> 
> Love, Lira 🏹

“You’re still here.”

Clint did fall asleep. After who knows how long everything just overwhelmed him and he slipped into unconsciousness. The dreams had been disjointed; overly bright beaches where he didn’t have sunglasses to shady suburban backyards with swimming pools and barbecues and kids playing on swing sets to airplanes flying over arctic snowscapes. Flick flick flick, like a badly edited movie, the film flapping loosely on the reel. But when he wakes James is still in his arms, still held tight to his chest.

“You’re...you’re still _here_.” He says it again, still unable to believe.

He can’t hear, but he feels the tension in James’s body. Remembering that he’d caused Clint pain. Prickling at the accusation that he might leave again. Fearing the precipice they currently stand upon, hoping they can find a way to firmer, steadier ground.

James shifts, then Clint feels his aids drop into his open palm. “Thanks,” he mumbles. They both move around; Clint puts his aids in and James turns over so they’re facing each other.

“I’m not leaving you again, Clint.” The use of his name, not _darlin’_ or _sweetheart_ , hits Clint almost like a physical blow. Not in a painful sort of way, but in a _please listen I’m being serious right now_ kind of way.

Clint squints at him, trying to focus, because suddenly there is another James standing behind the one in bed with him, looking almost the same, and it’s making Clint dizzy.

“You’re the real one, aren’t you.” He smiles at James, reaching out to touch his face. The stubble under his fingertips sends shivers down his spine. “Yeah, you have to be the real one. I never could touch any of the others. I kept trying even though it never worked, and they always disappeared.”

He thought James would smile, would be happy, would maybe even kiss him or want a repeat of that morning. But James just looks...concerned.

“Sweetheart.” The word is slow and sweet, but it’s not meant to entice, and Clint knows it. “Look, we should have talked last night, but I was too wrapped up in...well.” He smiles, a slight blush pinking his cheeks. They both know exactly what he’d been ‘wrapped up in.’ “But the way you’re talkin’ just now...I’m more than a little worried about you. Are you alright?”

“M’fine.” Clint snuggles closer, tucking himself under James’s chin. “Fine now.”

“I should have noticed," James says, escaping Clint’s tight hold with a gentle push. Clint can’t follow the conversation, not sure if James is talking to him or to himself, or to someone else. His head is starting to hurt. “But I was too happy to be here. Not paying close enough atten– _fuck_. Clint, you’re burning up. When did that start? Have you been sick?”

Clint blinks, tries to clear his head. Everything is fuzzy. “Not sick. Lots of dreams. Lots of James…” He giggles, and is surprised at how strange the sound is. Slurred, and kind of distant. But he pushes the thought away.

“Lots of James. But more James now!” He reaches blindly under the covers, tries to grab onto James, but he pulls away. Clint pouts.

“ _Fuck_. Clint, this is _serious_. Pay attention.”

He tries, he really tries, but Clint’s eyes don’t want to focus. “James.” His voice is tinged with panic. “James. I _can’t_. I can’t think, can’t–”

Clint’s heart is racing and there’s the feel of air whooshing past, like he’s falling into a deep darkness. But he also feels James pull him into a warm, safe embrace and a small bit of him settles. Enough that he can pull air into his lungs again.

James takes Clint’s face in his hands. “Clint. This is important, doll. When did the dreams start?”

Chewing on his lip, thinking hard, Clint finally says, “HYDRA.”

Swearing under his breath, James climbs out of bed and begins pulling on his clothes. “I can fix this. I just have to find…” He’s talking to himself, not much louder than a murmur. Clint can’t follow much anyway. He’s beginning to think James might be right about him being sick.

“Sweetheart,” James says, sitting on the bed beside Clint. He brushes back some of Clint’s too long hair and kisses him on the forehead before he continues. “Love. Please don’t panic, but you’ve been drugged. Poisoned.”

Clint begins to laugh; a manic, stressed out laugh that is quickly out of control. James grips his arms, gives him a shake hard enough to snap him out of it. “Sorry,” Clint says. “It’s just...you told me I’ve been _poisoned_. And told me not to panic. What else am I supposed to do?”

“It’s something HYDRA gives their captives to keep them confused. Makes them more...bidable. Sometimes anyway, didn’t seem to work too well with you. But the compound has a nasty side effect. Have you ever heard of Dreamflower?”

Clint shakes his head, though there is a niggle in the back of his head at the word.

“Some people take it on purpose, in very small doses, because it’s apparently quite a trip. Gives the user extremely vivid dreams, and only on very rare occasions do they turn to nightmares. But when you mix it with other compounds–particularly the sedatives in HYDRA’S particular cocktail–it messes with the REM cycle. It shortens each one, so pretty soon you’re dreaming–because of the Dreamflower–but you’re not actually getting any REM sleep at all.” His look is so serious it hurts. “I think you know what happens when–if–you get that far.”

There’s an icy feeling in the pit of Clint’s stomach, and it’s starting to spread to his fingers and toes.

“I’m gonna–”

“No,” James interrupts, pulling Clint into his arms. “You’re going to be fine. I’m going to take care of you.” Clint’s ear is pressed against James’s chest, and the rhythm of James’s heartbeat calms him as much as the words he says. “There’s an antidote. Of course there’s an antidote. I’ve just got to find a HYDRA base to raid to find it.” Clint tenses, wants to argue, but before he can James goes on. “Shh, just relax. I know what I’m doing. Breaking in is actually fairly easy. I have all the plans in my head, know all the back entrances and where there are unguarded things like maintenance hatches and ‘locked’ unopenable doors. As if things like that could stop me. What I’ve been doing lately is a lot more...”

And even through the haze of his fever and worry and whatever else is going on, Clint remembers the other Avengers talking about HYDRA bases being destroyed by some vigilante squad. He looks up at James and asks, “Shit, we thought that was...James, are you the vigilante squad?”

“Am I the…” James looks confused, then his mouth turns up in a smile. “Yeah. I guess I am.” He kisses Clint’s lips, soft and sweet. “We need to talk this out, darlin’, and I promise I’ll tell you everything. And I think you have some things to tell me too. I seem to recall you callin’ me more than just James last night.”

Clint holds his gaze steady. He’ll talk about it now, about Steve, about the Commandos and the smiling boy he saw in the photographs, but he’d rather wait until later. Until he can _think_ properly.

James nods slowly, seeing the truth in Clint’s eyes. “Yeah, we’ve got some things to talk out. But for now I just need to find that antidote.” He looks away, then back at Clint. “Trouble is, I’ve been doin’ a number on the nearby HYDRA bases. Pretty much everything I could get to without stealin’ a plane.” He gives Clint an embarrassed smile. “Yeah, yeah, I remember tellin’ you we shouldn’t steal a car. But does it count if I steal a HYDRA plane?”

A short bark of a laugh is all Clint can manage under the circumstances, but at least it’s something. It eases a little of the tension.

Clint’s on his back, propped up on a pillow, and James is on the edge of the bed, a hand on Clint’s face. “This is too serious a conversation to have with you like this, because you probably won’t remember it. But you deserve to understand. Do you remember me telling you about HYDRA’s brainwashing? About the…”

Reaching out to rest a hand on James’s thigh, Clint says, “The chair. Yeah, I remember.”

A cloud passes over James’s face. “I also mentioned…”

Words. Clint remembers something about words. He nods.

“They have...a book. A red book, it’s all about me, I guess. Notes, maybe other things. But on one page there’s a list of words that if someone reads it, if someone says the words in the right order…”

“You obey again,” Clint breathes.

“It’s like a reset button. I just...I _want_ to obey, to be told what to do, because without an order to follow I’m nothing, I’m empty. Blank. A book with no words. A–” He closes his eyes, his face a mask of pain.

“A puppet with no strings.”

James looks at him, startled.

“It wasn’t words for me. It was...an artefact. A staff, controlled by an offworld asshole called Loki. He touched my chest with it, and I was just...gone. My memories were there, my past, my knowledge but my _wants_ and _needs_ , they just didn’t exist. And then Loki told me what he wanted, and I had purpose again. It felt so good. Especially when I got things right, when I could help.”

Clint’s words are soft, barely spoken aloud, but build in intensity as he goes on. James just sits beside him, holding his hand, his face going from confusion to anger to horror as he speaks. Clint sees but doesn’t notice, he’s lost in the past. Lost in the terrors, the nightmares.

The reality of his own history.

“All I wanted was to make Loki happy. I did everything he asked, no matter what. I killed people. I killed people I worked with. I tried to kill my own friends.”

He’s crying. When did that start? All he knows is that James is holding him now, letting him talk, letting him cry. Because James actually understands what he’s talking about. The others, they listen, and they give him sympathy, but they don’t actually get it. They don’t know what it’s like to have your will taken away, and to be _grateful_ for it.

James doesn’t say anything, and Clint has never in his life been so thankful for silence. He’s so sick of people telling him it’s okay (it’s not) or it’s not his fault (he knows that but hearing it doesn’t change anything). He never realized how good it can be to just hear _nothing_.

When he’s got himself mostly under control he looks into James’s and says, “Thanks.” After a few breaths he adds, “I killed a lot of people when I was under Loki’s control. I know it was him pulling the strings. I know I never would have done it on my own. But I still have to hear the thunk of arrows hitting flesh when I close my eyes. I still have the memory of the sick feeling of joy I got every time I did something Loki wanted. I still…”

He just lets it go. Because James already knows.

“So,” Clint says with an attempt at a smile. “Seems we’ve got a little more in common than you realized.”

“That night in the safehouse, before you fell asleep. You were talkin’...you said my first trigger word.”

Clint jumps. “Did I–”

“It didn’t do anything,” James reassures. “No brain wipe, nothing like that. But it made me realize it was still out there. That book, with whatever they have about me in it, is still out there somewhere, and if someone catches me unaware I’ll be gone. I won’t be James anymore, I’ll be the Winter Soldier, and I’ll be their puppet. I could hurt anyone.” Looking at Clint with wet eyes, he says, “I could hurt you.”

It all makes sense. It’s never not gonna hurt, and he’s never gonna tell James it’s okay–’cause it’s not–but it makes sense.

“So you decided you should try to destroy the book?”

James looks embarrassed. “It wasn’t so cut and dry at first. When I left, that morning, all I wanted was to put as much space between the two of us as possible. When I wrote the note I had thoughts like _why is this happening?_ and _how can I make it stop?_ but I didn’t have anything as solid as a plan.” James lays down on the broken bed again so they can hold hands, sprawled side by side, staring at the ceiling. “I was just so _angry_. All those years, nothing but darkness and orders and loneliness–it wasn’t even a life. I had a harsh, broken existence. And then I had you.”

Clint is glad they’re not looking at each other. He can feel it now, the manic edge to his thoughts, the frustration that his body doesn’t respond to his commands quite as fast as he wants it to. And if he saw James looking at him right now he knows he’d lose it again.

His first instinct is to apologize. _Sorry you got stuck with the worst Avenger. I might be taller than you, but you really got the short end of the stick. All your life spent with nothing, and then you get the dumpster fire that is Clint Barton. Someone out there must really hate you._ Nat’s always down on him for the negative self talk, but what else is there to say? James should be with Steve anyway, the paragon of virtue and light and all that is good in the world. Clint, on the other hand, is the paragon of good aim and getting injured. That’s not what James needs.

He’s so deep within himself that it takes him a bit to realize James is still talking. “...ing you to hold onto, to laugh with, just to be a person with again. You weren’t afraid of me, weren’t even afraid to touch the thing they frankensteined onto me.”

“Dude, this arm is _awesome_ ,” Clint can’t help interrupting, raising the hand clasped in his own. “I mean, yeah, an evil organization bent on world domination may have built it, but that’s practically passé by now.” He bumps his head into James’s shoulder to show he’s teasing then goes on, more serious now. “Besides, it’s how you use it that matters. Back in that base, I saw you use it to save me. I know it wasn’t full strength then, but still...that makes it pretty okay by me.”

James tips his own head sideways, so their temples touch. “I just didn’t want to lose you. Not because of those HYDRA bastards. They took my whole life. I couldn’t let them have you too.”

“So you decided the best way to keep me was to leave me?” Clint thinks he understands, but his brain isn’t aiming true today, so he has to say it anyway.

“I–” Just the one word, one _letter_ really, is enough to let Clint know he’s hurt James.

“Sorry,” Clint says. “I shouldn’t have said that, it was a low blow. I know what you mean. I’d have done the same for Natasha. Have done, on several occasions actually, and have the scars to prove it.” He can feel the question coming, so he says, “Nat’s my best friend. She’s terrifying, in a lovable sort of way. She hates when I try to protect her, is sure she can always take care of herself. Which she can, actually. But best friends have to step in sometimes, don’t they?”

The silence stretches out, and Clint realizes James is probably thinking about Steve, and how many times he stepped in to stand up for his best friend. To the end of the line, they said to each other. And they both failed, at least in their own eyes. But isn’t that just life? People don’t last forever. Normal people don’t, anyway. These two, though, maybe they could really have forever. Who knows what that crazy serum’s done to them. Maybe they actually are immortal.

Stop trying to push him away, Clint’s brain. Hold onto him while you can. It’s going to be hard enough when he realizes you’re not all that special and leaves. Or is reintroduced to Steve Perfection Rogers, his one true love.

He’s glad he cried earlier. He doesn’t have any tears left.

James is talking again. He’s getting out of bed.

“Why are you getting out of bed?”

“Clint. Sweetheart. Haven’t you been listenin’? I have to get you an antidote. HYDRA has the antidote. I know some of the ingredients, because they talked about the drug and the antidote both when I was around, but I have no idea of the formula. Even if we went to experts it would take them months, and you don’t have that kind of time.”

The icy feeling is back again. Not enough time. Most of Clint is numb now, just laying in bed, trying to figure out how to jump up and stop James from leaving. But everything is numb, and cold, and he can’t remember how to get up. He’s so, so tired.

He must doze off for a moment because the next thing he sees is James’s hand coming down to slap his face. Again, he thinks, feeling the sting across his cheek. “Ow!” he yelps, or tries to. His voice is weak, so it’s mostly just a drawn out vowel sound.

“Sorry, doll. But you were out, and weren’t wakin’ up.”

“Could have kissed me awake.” He tries to grumble the words, but it’s mostly just a whisper.

James leans down and kisses him softly on the mouth. “Better?” There’s a smile on his lips, but his eyes look worried.

Clint smiles back. “Not quite yet. Better do it again.” James laughs, and this time his eyes laugh too, the edges crinkling.

“So demanding,” James says, but he complies, and this time the kiss is deeper, less chaste. Clint tries to hold on, to make it last, but James eventually pulls away, panting slightly. “If we keep that up I’m gonna have to take my clothes off again. And I really need to go.”

The word is a punch in the gut. James is leaving him again. He’d known, they’d been talking all this time, but to hear it so plain–

“I’m coming back,” James says. He’s on one knee at the edge of the bed, holding on to one of Clint’s outstretched hands. “The close by bases are gone, but there are a few not _too_ far. I’ll be back...not tomorrow. Not the next day. The day after that. What’s today?”

Clint thinks. The days have been blending together since he’s been hiding here. “Monday,” he says.

“Alright. I’ll be back on Thursday then. You just keep yourself safe until then. Drink lots of water. No alcohol, just water. Maybe juice.” Clint opens his mouth but before he can speak James says, “Yes, you can have coffee.” Clint brightens the tiniest bit.

He kisses Clint again, and when Clint reaches up to hold onto him he feels fabric. When did James get dressed? His brain does a sideways slip, trying to figure out the intricacies of time, but he gives up when he can’t remember what time is, and he remembers that James is kissing him so he should pay attention.

“Don’t go,” Clint whispers, and he can see the heartbreak in James’s eyes. He slips something into Clint’s hands. Clint’s phone.

“Call Natasha. You need someone to check on you, to help bring your fever down. Just over the counter stuff should do it for the fever. That and water. I’d tell you to rest, but...Clint, I can’t sugarcoat that part. It’s gonna get tough, these next few days. The hallucinations are going to be more frequent. You might see more than just me. And you’re going to be _very_ tired. I’m sorry sweetheart, I wish I could make it all go away right now, but I’ll be back, and you’ll be alright.” He says it like it’s an order, like he’s telling the universe how things are going to go. Like if he says it firmly enough it must be true.

That’s when Clint knows James is worried.

James is kissing him again, then standing, then backing towards the door. “I’m coming back,” he says. “I’m coming back. I promise.”

“I’ll just...wait here, I guess,” Clint says, when he hears the apartment door shut behind James. He whispers an “I love you” to the empty room, but of course no one answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra extra thanks to Pherryt for her reassurances on this one, and to Hope, Vex, and Squaddy for their encouragements while I wrote. It was a tough one!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So what do you do when you only have a few days left to live?
> 
> Clint knows James will do everything he can to find the antidote, but he’s got to face reality. He gets himself in these tight spots far too often, and eventually his time is just going to run out.
> 
> Who knows, maybe it’s this time.
> 
> It sure feels like it. It’s almost like he can _feel_ the poison now, amping up his heart rate, messing with his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This chapter was a wild ride to write. I don't think I've ever had a more difficult time writing something than I had with this chapter. What you're about to read is the _fourth_ incarnation of this chapter. The other three were thrown into the garbage heap, never to be seen again (although some tiny bits of them remain). Add on top of that one of my kids had COVID-like symptoms for a day (they all disappeared after a day though, so thankfully it was just a 24 hour thing) and I had a stomach virus for 72 hours, and that's why it's taken an entire month to get this posted. But hey, here it is at last! I haven't forgotten you all. As an added bonus, this is an EXTRA LONG chapter. Yay!!
> 
> All my love,  
> Lira 🏹
> 
> p.s. Thank you Pherryt, as always. Extra special thanks to Vex for getting me back on track when I was extra stuck, and to my clintucky pals for every ounce of encouragement–I sure needed it!!

So what do you do when you only have a few days left to live?

Clint knows James will do everything he can to find the antidote, but he’s got to face reality. He gets himself in these tight spots far too often, and eventually his time is just going to run out.

Who knows, maybe it’s this time.

It sure feels like it. It’s almost like he can _feel_ the poison now, amping up his heart rate, messing with his head. He can feel the fever now too, the ache in his joints, the chill up his spine. That part, at least, he can do something about. He hopes.

He takes a long look at the phone in his hand, then sets it on the bed. He’ll call Natasha, but not yet. Even in a text she’d be able to tell something’s up. She always knows. Best to get at least something under control first.

He finds a bottle of something that says “fever reducer” in his medicine cabinet and takes three without bothering to read the label. He looks in the mirror and shrugs. “It’ll be fine,” he says to his reflection. His reflection doesn’t look convinced.

“Maybe I just need sleep,” he says. He knows sleep isn’t doing him all that much good right now, but there’s got to be _some_ restorative function...right? That and the medicine and the...oh. Water. He forgot that part. He stumbles to the kitchen and downs two glasses of water, then swallows some orange juice from a carton in the fridge for good measure. At least his stomach isn’t queasy, the juice seems to sit okay. He suddenly realizes he’s famished–in bed all night, then sex, then in bed all morning. Yeah, it’s no wonder he’s hungry. He looks around the kitchen as if food might magically appear...and then it does. On the counter there’s a brown paper bag from one of Nat’s favorite bakeries; scrawled on it, in familiar handwriting, is a note.

_Got here pretty early, didn’t want to wake you. Got your favorite bagels, and that strawberry cream cheese you’re always raving about._

_N._

_p.s. Just push start on the coffeemaker. It’s all ready._

“Bless you, Natasha,” he says to the empty room. What would he do without her?

What will she do without you, a traitorous voice in his head whispers. The thought is like a blow, so harsh it nearly takes him to his knees. He can’t leave Nat alone. She’s got the team now, but the team isn’t _him_. But he can’t think about that, can’t think about Nat without him, can’t think about James–

So what do you do when you only have a few days left to live?

Clint drinks coffee, just like he always does. He doesn’t bother with a mug, he’s drinking it black anyway. In between sips–okay, gulps, he can be honest when he’s dying–he eats the bagels and cream cheese from Natasha. He remembers having bagels with her in Liverpool; they weren’t on a mission, they were on a rare, much-needed vacation. He wanted to visit England, so they flew to London and then just...drove. They zigzagged across the country, drinking at pubs, eating at bakeries and cafes and coffee shops (those were Clint’s favorites, of course). It took a few days, but even Nat relaxed in the end. She never stopped checking for escape routes, but you can’t take the spy out of the girl, right? Not even on vacation.

He thinks again about sending her a text, but he can still feel the fever in his joints, can still feel his thoughts skipping like stones across a pond. She’ll know something’s up before he hits send. He’s never figured out how she reads his mind, but that doesn’t change the facts. He’ll text later. Or call. But not until he can be sure his voice won’t give away everything in a single word.

He makes another pot of coffee and drinks that too, wrapped up in a blanket on the sofa. Not for the first time he’s appreciative of his oversized and very comfortable sofa, wide enough for a long limbed archer to curl up on without having to worry about rolling off the edge in a fever fit. Would be better with Lucky, but he knows he can’t have Kate bring him over. One look at him right now and she’d drag him to a doctor. Either that or plant herself at his side until she badgers him back to good health. And neither one of them is an option.

“Fever reducer my ass,” he mutters, sliding the empty pot onto the coffee table. “Nothing’s been reduced. Except for me, reduced to talking to myself. Again.” When imaginary James crouches down on the floor next to the sofa to silently watch his face Clint’s had about enough. “What are you looking at?” he shouts. Tries to shout, anyway. He’s so worn out it’s more of a croak. James just offers up a sad smile and keeps looking at him. After a few minutes he blows a kiss. Clint knows it isn’t really James, that it’s only an image cooked up by the poison currently living in his brain, but somehow he’s comforted by the kiss anyway.

Somehow Clint manages to sleep, and when he wakes he only remembers fragments of his dreams. An endless apple orchard, each tree growing rainbow colored apples. Walking, talking teddy bears the size of small elephants. Sitting by the ocean, listening to the waves crash onto the sand.

He still smells salt when he wakes.

He seems to be alone in the apartment when he opens his eyes; he can’t remember the last time there wasn’t a James there with him. He shakes his head; that’s a very weird thought. He’s glad, though. Now that he knows the real James is out there truly wanting him, the hallucination just reminds him how much he wants the real thing.

Shakily he gets to his feet. He stretches out all his muscles, feels his joints pop and, surprisingly, not ache. He’s a little weak from sleeping for what feels like a fairly long time, but the fever seems to be gone. He fumbles through the blankets until he finds his phone, and yeah, it’s been four hours. He doesn’t feel great, doesn’t even feel good, but he doesn’t feel sick or crazy anymore.

So he calls Nat.

She picks up before the first ring finishes. Had she been holding her phone in her hand or did she just know he was about to call? Probably the latter. Nat knows everything.

“Hey,” he says when she doesn’t say anything. “I’m, ah, I’m having a really weird day…”

“Movie night?” she says.

Clint sighs with relief. He loves that he doesn’t have to explain things to her. She just gets it.

“Movie night would be great. Could you send one of Stark’s cars? I haven’t been getting enough sleep, I don’t really want to deal with–”

“I’ll be there in an hour,” she interrupts.

He chuckles softly. “Thanks, Nat. I owe you one.”

At that he can practically hear her shaking her head. “You owe me about a thousand, but who’s counting?”

She hangs up without saying goodbye.

When you only have a few days left to live, you spend time with your family.

They don’t have to be blood kin. Clint doesn’t have any of those left, not really. Barney’s around somewhere, probably, but that relationship is far too complicated to try to rekindle in a few days. But he’s got plenty of _family_. When he and Nat walk onto the common floor Steve and Tony are, of all things, arm wrestling on the dining room table. Tony’s got part of his suit on, just the one arm, and he’s going against Steve’s strength. It looks like a close thing, but Clint’s pretty sure Steve’s just toying with Tony.

It’s adorable.

Thor and Sam are sitting at the bar, animatedly discussing...something, they’re too far away for Clint to hear. He’s got a good view of Thor’s mouth, though, and almost laughs out loud when he reads the words _always time for a bubble bath, friend Sam_ , on Thor’s lips.

Bruce is in one of the comfy chairs scribbling in a notebook–as usual–but he seems to be multitasking, because Scott Lang is perched on the coffee table in front of him telling a story about his little girl, and Bruce seems to be actively engaged. Clint shakes his head a little, enjoying the scene. And also wondering how many things Banner’s brain can do at once.

He and Nat just slide into place, Clint flopping down on the sofa and Nat picking up his legs and curling up underneath them. They’ve fit together practically from the beginning, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Clint barely sees the movie, a Connery-era Bond flick he’s seen at least a dozen times; he’s too focused on the people around him. He sees the way Tony looks at Steve when he’s not looking back, like he can’t believe his good fortune, and the way Steve traces shapes on Tony’s thigh–at first it looks random, but when he looks closer, he sees that Steve is actually writing _I love you_ over and over again. He sees Scott sending a quick good night text to his daughter, complete with a silly selfie. Sam and Bruce are quietly discussing the scientific inaccuracies of Bond’s gadgets, all while Bruce still scribbles in his notebook. One of these days he’ll cure cancer, or make all men fly, or something. But their discussion is kept to a very low murmur, because Thor–sitting next to them–is quite caught up in the exploits of 007. “He really does things like this in every film? My, he seems like quite the fellow! Perhaps he should be an Avenger!” His laughter rolls through the room like warm thunder.

And Nat. His Natasha.

She’s subtle, so good at making herself blend into the background that most people would say there’s nothing to notice about her. But she can’t hide from him, he always knows where she is. And while he can’t read her mind like she reads his, he can read her a little. He can tell she’s happy he’s here, but it’s a guarded happiness. She’s worried about him. Her upper body turns slightly towards him, looking out for him. The hand she has resting on his calf squeezes lightly every few minutes, as if reminding herself that yes, he’s still here. In his mind, where she can’t see, he shakes his head and smiles sadly. He can’t ever hide from her either, not completely. He wishes he could allay her fears and, oddly, he wishes he could just tell her everything. But he can’t do either, so he just cuddles her instead.

As much as she’ll let him. In this case “cuddling” just means draping his legs over top of her lap and letting her tuck her cold feet under his thighs. And occasionally reaching out a hand to touch her elbow, just to see her flick her eyelashes, just to see her acknowledge his presence.

It’s the little things. With them it’s most often the little things.

When you only have a few days left to live, you live for fun.

“Hey, Bruce,” Clint says, catching up with him in the elevator. “Fun movie, right?”

Not bothering to look up from his scribbling, Bruce asks, “What do you want, Clint?”

“Okay, no small talk. It’s no big deal, really, I just need you to help me out with something.”

Bruce looks at him with distrust. “Are you planning to cause trouble?”

Clint shoots him a crooked grin. In his best ‘I’m innocent’ voice he says, “How could you even think that?”

“No.”

“Please?”

The elevator door starts to open. “This is my floor,” Bruce says, trying to push past Clint.

Clint doesn’t even have to look. “It is not. This is Tasha’s floor.” She signs _I’ll be around_ from behind Bruce and slips by both of them and out onto her floor. The doors shut with a slight woosh.

“You know I don’t like getting involved in your pranks, Clint.” Bruce sounds tired, but Clint thinks he might be wearing him down. He flashes his most charming smile.

“You won’t be, not really. I won’t even tell you what I’m doing. You’ll have plausible deniability, see? All I need is for you to stand just beyond the elevator on Steve and Tony’s floor. You’re the only one who can really distract Tony, you know? You’ve got all that sciency talk, just tell him you thought of something new to try on the something-something down in the lab and he’ll be so engaged he’ll want to either stand and talk for an hour or head right down to the lab. It’s perfect.”

“And if Steve shows up?”

Clint waves a hand dismissively. “I’m not worried about Captain Goodie Two Shoes. If he catches me he’ll take one look, say, ‘I didn’t see anything,’ and walk the other way. Trust me, I’ve got Steve’s number.”

He looks at Clint through narrowed eyes. “Fine,” he says. “But next time we’re in a briefing and one of the others starts poking fun of my scientific explanation, you’re going to stand up for me.”

That’s an easy deal to make, since Clint probably won’t be alive next time that happens.

“Done,” he says. He feels a stab of guilt, but refuses to hold onto it. He’s living for fun.

Bruce’s eyes narrow again. “You agreed to that awfully fast.”

“I happen to enjoy your scientific explanations,” Clint says.

Bruce huffs a laugh.

“Mostly I just really want your help though. You’re the best man for the job. I mean, if I asked Natasha she’s just knock Tony out, and that could lead to time in medical, or possible broken bones...it’s just not good. All _you’ll_ have to do is talk. It’s perfect.”

Sighing, Bruce says, “Fine. But I’m bringing a book. I’ll need something to do.”

Clint just grins.

He’s rather in awe of Tony’s closet.

No one should have this many suits. It’s practically obscene. Clint figured on popping in, grabbing a suit, and getting to work, but this is really more of a room than a closet, and he hadn’t bargained on having this many to choose from. He walks around, thinking, trailing his hand along the soft sleeves as he walks.

It had been easy to get in. He’s had the route for ages. He even had the vent into Steve and Tony’s bedroom open once before so he’d been sure it would work, but today is the first time he actually dropped down onto the floor. He hadn’t wanted to blow his cover before he thought of a really good prank for Tony, and then he’d wanted to wait for the right time.

That time is today.

A thought occurs to him. “We good, JARVIS?”

“Of course, Agent Barton. There are no cameras recording at the moment.”

“You’re a peach.”

“Agent Barton, I am not–”

“Thanks, Jay. We’re good.” He chuckles a bit. As weird as it sounds, he’s missed his chats with the AI.

Alright, back to work. He eventually finds a soft charcoal suit he thinks will be perfect for his little gift to Tony. He lays it on the floor, facing up. Now he has to decide. He pulls the small stack of stencils from his pocket and flips through them. “Steve on the pocket, I think. Close to his heart.” He puts the stencil of Cap’s shield on the breast pocket, aims a tiny silver bottle at it, and sprays. Almost instantly the material turns white. Clint grins. It’s a kind of aerosolized bleach, fast working and fast drying, and amazingly safe to use. He lifts the stencil to see a near perfect representation of the shield on Tony’s suit pocket. Minus the colors, of course. But that comes later.

Now that he knows how well it works he gets down to work: Hulk’s fist goes on one of the cuffs, his own chevron goes on one shoulder, Widow’s symbol goes on the other shoulder. He puts Falcon’s wings across the shoulder blades and Thor’s hammer sticking out of one of the lower pockets. He even makes a trail of little ants along the hem for Scott.

Overall, it’s a beautiful thing.

He’s just about to start on the finishing touches–stencils again, but this time with tiny bottles of fast drying spray paint–when there’s a sound at the door behind him. He spins and automatically holds up a bottle like a weapon, even though the paint won’t spray near far enough. It’s just instinct.

It’s Steve.

“Really, Barton?” he says. “What are you, thirteen?” He’s shaking his head, and Clint can’t tell if he sounds disappointed or jealous. Somehow he gets the feeling it’s a combination of both.

He grins, spinning the tiny bottle of paint in his hand. “Hey, a guy’s gotta have a little fun now and then.”

Steve shakes his head again, then turns around and heads back the way he came. “By the way, I didn’t see anything,” he says. “Because I wasn’t here.”

“Got it, Cap. See ya later!”

Clint laughs out loud, wondering what Bruce is thinking out in the hall.

Huh. He should probably check in.

“Hey. Banner. What’s goin’ on out there? And thanks for the warning on Steve by the way, that was _great_. I almost sprayed paint in his eyes.” No need to tell him the paint never could have actually reached Steve’s eyes from the tiny little bottle he has.

In his head he sees Bruce in front of the door, pacing back and forth, nose in a book. “You said you didn’t care about Steve seeing you. Why am I doing this again?”

Grinning at the way Bruce–as usual–completely ignores his sarcasm, Clint says, “Because you’re a good man and you like to help your friends.”

“Yes. So why am I doing this again?”

Clint chuckles. “About five more minutes and then you’re free. And then you can go read your book and pace somewhere else, alright?”

“How did you–”

“I’ve been taking Natasha lessons.”

This actually earns him a laugh. “We really only need one of her,” Bruce says.

“Good thing I’ve decided to stay Clint then,” he says. “I couldn’t fit into the pants.”

It doesn’t take him long to finish. The paint dries quickly, and it’s really just a bit of green here, a splash of purple there. The suit truly is a masterpiece, a true work of art. He doesn’t think Tony will ever actually _wear_ it, but Tony’s surprised him before. When it’s all painted and dried he snaps a few pictures to show Nat then hangs the finished product on a three-paneled mirror on the far end of the closet. Tony’s sure to see it as soon as he walks in. He only wishes…

“Hey, JARVIS. You’ve got cameras in here, right?”

“Yes, Agent Barton. And of course I’ll record Sir’s reaction for you. I know you wouldn’t want to miss it.”

“You really get me, Jay.”

“I’ll just add it to your collection,” JARVIS says, and something about that causes a twinge in Clint’s chest.

“My…” he starts, but he has to stop and take a breath. Several, actually. Fuck, he hates it when shit gets real. He wipes his hand across his suddenly sweating forehead and tries again. “My collection. Jay, if anything ever happens to me–like _really_ happens to me, not just me going missing for a few weeks–will you make sure Natasha gets all the stuff in my collection? All the prank videos you’ve recorded for me, all my private mission journals, the file you keep for me to look at when I’m having nightmares. Can you give all that to Nat? Just her, no one else. I…” He’s got to stop for a breath again. This is not the time to get overly emotional. “I just think she’d appreciate that stuff.” It’s a lame finish, but it’s all he’s got.

“I’ll see to that, Agent Barton,” JARVIS says, like it’s the most normal thing, like Clint isn’t swiping tears out of his eyes at the thought of Nat mourning him–curled up in one of the comfy chairs with her feet tucked under her, a tablet on her lap, watching all his prank videos, reading his ideas for new trick arrows and notes on how terrified he was to fly with the Hulk or how much he loves being the eyes in the sky. He can hear her tearful laughter, see her rolling her eyes. But the thought of her looking through his post-nightmare file is too much for him and he has to sit down before the emotion overwhelms him. This was supposed to be fun, but here he is, crying in Tony’s closet, dripping his tears onto a suit that probably cost more than all of Clint’s clothes put together.

He eventually gets himself under enough control to get going through the vents again. The suit he’s had his face buried in is probably ruined, and he feels pretty bad about that, but it hadn’t been intentional. Things are hitting him pretty hard lately. To be fair, he’s never really been dying before, so he supposes he gets a pass. He wipes his eyes one more time–what are a few more tears gonna do, really–and sidles out into the bedroom. It’s an easy leap up to the open vent, and he pulls himself in without much strain. It feels good on his arms and his pecs; he’s been moping in his apartment entirely too long, and his body misses the daily workouts he gets in the Tower.

Clint checks in with Bruce to let him know he’s free to go, but all he gets in response is half of the animated conversation Bruce is having with Tony about a new kind of kind restraint cuffs that work with magnets and create some kind of force field. “My work here is done,” he says, and before he flicks the comms off he hears a slight cough from Bruce. It might almost be a laugh.

When you only have a few days left to live you enjoy every minute. The reaction video JARVIS sends late that night is fantastic, Clint watches it over and over and laughs so hard his sides ache. Tony goes apeshit when he sees the “defaced” suit, of course. That’s what he calls it, defaced. Clint is a bit insulted, it’s a work of art, a masterpiece, and Tony calls it _defaced_. But it’s worth it to see the color of Tony’s face, and to hear the creative combinations of curse words he uses. Also interesting is Steve in the background, covering his smile with a hand. Clint will have to remember to give him a hard time about that later.

The next day is Tuesday, and Clint devotes the day to the City that he’s grown to love. He visits every animal shelter he knows, plays with every dog and almost every cat. He even holds a ferret in one, stroking its little head while beady black eyes glitter at him. He makes a call to the Tower, gets JARVIS to make a donation from his savings to each place he visits. No names, though, just money for the animals.

He hopes they all find perfect homes, like he did.

He eats more pizza than one ordinary human can but doesn’t regret a bite. He’s got to go to all his favorite places, after all. And what can it do? Kill him?

He shivers a bit. Maybe that one’s a bit much, Clint’s brain.

Clint doesn’t just play with dogs and eat pizza on Tuesday. He puts on some comfortable clothes and heads to Central Park and finds a good spot and then...plays. He walks on his hands, turns cartwheels that end with somersaults. He climbs a tree suitable to his purpose, then “tightropes” along a sturdy branch, adds a handspring, then flips onto the ground, landing on his feet, adding a flourishing bow. He shows off his flexibility and his juggling skills and everything else he can think of, barely ever repeating himself. It’s not long before he’s drawn a crowd, and he’s glad he decided not to bring his bow. It would have been fun, showing off trick shots at tree trunks and high branches and whatnot but he doesn’t need the headache of being recognized today. It’s better to just be a regular guy showing off in the park, getting off on the high of performing. Which he does _not_ do. (Much.)

He doesn’t pass a hat or anything, but when he’s done he finds a pile of change and–surprisingly–dollar bills near the tree he’d climbed. He even sees a twenty in there. Huh. He smiles a little, thinking he’ll have to find another shelter to visit on his way back to his apartment. But as he’s leaving the park he sees two women on a bench with a little boy on the ground beside them, maybe six or seven years old. It’s the little boy who catches his attention, he’s fingerspelling absently while he’s poking at a bug with the pointer finger of his other hand. He slows automatically, and looks at the women, reading their lips. They’re talking about the boy’s special school, and how the state pays for a lot of it but not all, and they’re having trouble keeping up. Suddenly glad for his sleight of hand criminal training, he slips the rather substantial stack of paper money from his pocket and into the woman’s purse. It’s not enough, he knows, and he wishes he could do more, but it’s something.

As he starts to walk away, he sees that he’s not as sneaky as he thinks; the little boy is looking up at him, eyes wide. Clint winks, putting a finger to his lips. _I am friend_ , he signs.

The boy’s already wide eyes look like they may fall out of his head. _My name Jake_ , he signs, spelling his name carefully. _Why you sign?_

_Deaf_ , Clint signs back, then turns his head so the boy can see the purple aid snuggled into and around his ear.

Jake grins, but Clint can see a hint of sadness in the smile. _Me too_ , he signs back.

_Okay?_

Jake shrugs, then nods.

Clint gives him a look that says he doesn’t buy it.

Jake shrugs again. _Mom worry. Money stuff. I feel…_ He stops, searching for the word to describe his feelings. Finally he settles on, _I feel bad._

Clint can sure understand that. But he met this kid on just the right day, because he’s going to do something about it. _Last name?_ he signs.

The kid gives him a weird look, but spells out _A-S-H-E-R._

Smiling, Clint signs, _I fix, okay? No more worry. Mom better._

Jake’s face lights up. _Thank you. Thank you!_ He starts to get up, but Clint holds up a hand and puts his fingers to his lips again.

_I go now,_ he signs. _I go. You play. Be happy!_ Jake settles again, his eyes still alight.

_Thank you,_ he signs again.

His smile is all the thanks Clint needs.

As he turns to go he pulls his phone from his pocket and dials Tony.

“Hey Tone, I need a favor. … Really? Oh come on, you can’t still be sore about that, that was last night! … Wow, it really takes you a long time to get over stuff. … Okay, well this favor isn’t really for me anyway, it’s for a little deaf kid. You can’t say no to a little deaf kid, can you? ... He goes to one of the special deaf schools in the city but his family isn’t getting enough help from the state so they’re having some money troubles. … No I don’t know which one, that’s why I’m calling you. Well that and I’d have no idea how to set up a scholarship, which is what I want you to do.”

He tells Tony about the kid, and asks him to figure out a way to set up an anonymous scholarship so his parents don’t have to worry about tuition anymore. The kid’s got enough going on, growing up is hard enough. Kids feel it when their parents are stressed out about stuff. And Clint’s got plenty of money. JARVIS is great at investing. And it’s not like he’s going to be needing it for anything.

“Just keep my name out of it, alright? ... What does it matter _why_. Maybe I don’t want to have to deal with weepy parents.”

Tony finally agrees. On his walk home he passes a guy playing a guitar and singing Blackbird. His voice is clear and bright and all Clint can think of is James learning to be himself again, becoming a _person_ , after being torn apart by HYDRA.

Clint empties all the change from his pockets into the open guitar case on the sidewalk.

That night he invites Kate over; he misses her and he misses Lucky, so it’s a two for one sort of deal. They take Lucky to the dog park, and if Kate sees him crying into Lucky’s fur she doesn’t mention it.

When you don’t have much time left, sometimes you just want normal things.

Wednesday Clint goes to the Tower. He goes to a briefing and listens to Steve talk about the “vigilante squad” hitting more HYDRA bases. He perks up at this, but then realizes it’s old news, these bases were hit last week. Nothing in the past two days. Then Tony asks if they should try to stop the vigilantes, and Clint has to work to keep from laughing. For one thing, it seems fairly hypocritical coming from Tony. For another, if only they knew. Could Tony stop James? One on one? It would be an interesting fight. He’d actually love to see them sparring. Not Tony in his suit, though. Can’t see his muscles that way…

He shakes his head to snap out of the daydream. Now is not the time.

Clint leans against the wall, a grin on his face. This isn’t exactly what he’d wanted, but it’s close.

Tony and Steve circle each other, each searching for an opening. Steve reveals nothing. His eyes don’t move from Tony’s, his muscles don’t twitch, he barely blinks. Tony, on the other hand, is all mouth, trash talking and teasing and getting in Steve’s face. Tony can never hope to beat Steve on strength, but he’s smart. If he uses his brains…

But just then Tony tries to make a big flourishy move and Steve darts into the opening. In moments Tony is flat on his back; Steve has his arms pinned and his legs are wrapped around Tony’s in a way that makes it absolutely clear: Tony isn’t moving. “I win,” Steve says, his voice even.

Tony laughs. “Depends on how you define winning,” he says, and wiggles a bit under Steve. Steve turns bright red and the rest of the team laughs.

“Alright everyone, that’s enough,” Steve says, and soon everyone breaks off into pairs. Clint almost cries when he ends up with Natasha. He goes with laughter instead.

“What’s funny?” she asks. “You finally going to beat me today?”

“Of course not,” he says, and it’s the absolute truth. He can’t ever beat her, she knows him too well. “I’m just happy to see you. Is that okay?”

She nods, but the look she pairs it with is an odd one.

He grins his most careless, ‘come and get me’ grin, but he’s sure she sees through it. She always does.

How much has she figured out?

He’s so distracted she has him pinned in half a minute, and she doesn’t look at all satisfied. In fact, she looks irritated. After a good long look she leans down and whispers into his ear, “Whenever you decide to let me in on whatever’s going on with you, I’m here.”

Clint’s quiet at dinner. Not too quiet, because he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. He still makes jokes and still perches on the back of his chair instead of sitting on it “like a normal human being” (according to Bruce). He still drinks all the coffee, at least three times as much as the others. He doesn’t even protest when Steve and Tony don’t stay. “I made reservations,” Tony says, snaking an arm around Steve’s waist. “So don’t wait up.” Steve’s face goes pink and he smacks Tony’s ass. Tony just winks and says, “That can wait ‘til later,” in a low voice that’s exactly loud enough for everyone to hear. And then Steve pulls Tony to the elevator, and that’s it. They’re gone.

He _wants_ to protest. He _wants_ to make them stay, tell them to fuck the reservations and eat with the team, that he’s calling a very special team dinner because he needs them all there right now. He doesn’t need them to say anything special or do anything out of the ordinary, he just needs them to be there.

But of course he can’t. Because the first thing they’d all want to know is _why_. And that’s a question he can’t answer.

So he just watches them leave, and when they’re gone he cracks a joke about Tony being America’s ass and Tasha rolls her eyes but he can see that she’s laughing inside, so it’s good. When the rest of the team laughs it’s just a bonus.

Everyone goes their own way after dinner. Even Natasha makes some mysterious excuse about having to pick out some shoes which is clearly code for something but Clint has no idea what. Bruce is already reading something on his tablet as he’s walking to the elevator and Clint wonders how he’s still alive. The Hulk doesn’t have to worry about running into things, he just smashes them out of the way, but Banner’s just a little guy. But he walks with his mind on other things, reading or writing or whatever, and it always looks like he just expects that the world will rearrange itself to make space for him.

Clint smiles. This has been a good night, he thinks. Laughing, eating...something–Clint had been too caught up in the people to pay too much attention to the food–watching his friends be exactly as mysterious and quirky as ever.

This is a good way to say goodbye.

So he slips out without so much as a backward glance. No lingering goodbyes, no extras. Because that’s the way he always leaves, and if he suddenly gives them all big hugs or kisses on the forehead like he really wants to, they’ll know something’s wrong and have him in medical before he can shout for JARVIS.

So just leaving is better.

He walks home. It’s a long, cold walk–when did autumn get this wintry bite?–but his brain is buzzing too much for him to even think about getting inside a cramped car or worse, going underground and getting on a train. And anyway, he’s in good shape...aside from the poison.

He can feel it now, really feel it. It’s mostly been in the background the past couple days, but tonight it’s seething under his skin. It’s like an itch he can’t scratch, a headache just behind his eyes, a stone in his shoe. It’s not going to let him forget for a moment that he’s dying.

And yeah, he doesn’t really know for sure that he’s going to die _tomorrow_. But James said he’d be back on Thursday, and tomorrow is Thursday, and whatever he tries on Clint will either work...or it won’t. And if it doesn’t… Well. Then he’ll spend what time he has left with James, and that’s not so bad a thought. He doesn’t _want_ to die, but if he _has_ to, dying with James holding onto him sounds almost...okay.

The fake James is walking next to him, looking at him curiously. He’s been following him around the Tower the past two days, but with all the others around he’s gotten pretty good at ignoring him. “Hey,” he says, giving in to the temptation. He keeps his voice low, though it doesn’t really matter. Lots of people walk through New York talking to themselves. James just keeps walking, waiting for him to go on.

“It’s funny,” Clint says. “I’ve spent most of my life diving headfirst into danger. I fight the bad guys because it’s my job, and because it’s the right thing to do, and because I don’t want them to hurt my friends. I used to do the dangerous stuff because I got paid, and back in my circus days it was all about the applause, the attention, the praise. I lived for that shit. I’m no psychologist, but I’m pretty sure I was trying to fill the gaping void love left in my little boy soul.” He kicks at an imaginary stone on the sidewalk and has to laugh when James does the same. His brain is really messing with him tonight.

“So. Danger,” he says, scrubbing at the back of his neck. “I’ve been addicted to it as long as I can remember. I’ve almost died more times than I can count. But this, right now, is the first time I’ve ever actually _thought_ about dying. The first time I’ve ever even _considered_ it. And, what do you know.” He looks at James. “I’m not scared. As long as I’m not alone, I’m not scared to go.”

And as soon as he says it out loud, he knows it’s true. He’s _not_ scared. He’d much rather have a long, happy, danger-filled life, with lots of kisses from James and snide remarks from Tony and glare-filled lectures from Steve; he wants to braid Nat’s hair and tease Bruce, listen to Scott fanboy and hang out with Sam. He’d so much rather have all that. But he’s not afraid.

He’s climbing the stairs to his apartment on automatic before he even realizes he’s home. He’s glad, he needs to rest. He’s so tired, so tired, so…

There are rabbits chasing him, pink rabbits with yellow, intelligent eyes, when there’s a hand on his shoulder and a voice. A voice he knows.

“Clint! Clint, wake up, are you okay?”

He has to blink a few times to clear the rabbits away, to see that it’s...Simone? What’s she doing in his apartment? She’s crouched next to him, and she looks worried. And then he sees that they're not in his apartment, they’re on the stairs. He must have fallen asleep on his way upstairs.

This poison’s really having its way with him now.

Struggling to sit up, he says, “I’m alright.” He even manages a small, rueful smile. “Just worked out too hard at the gym this morning, I guess.”

Simone looks at him like the caring mom she is, hand on his shoulder. “You sure, Clint? You look…” He can see her searching for a word, looking back and forth between his eyes.

“I’m really okay,” he says, pulling himself to his feet with a Herculean effort. It takes everything to not wince at the pain throughout his body, but somehow he manages. “Guess I should go to bed early tonight though.” She looks like she wants to ask more questions so before she can he asks, “So how are the kids?”

Simone’s eyes soften, and as she walks beside him all the way to his door she chatters about her kids. He doesn’t hear as much as he’d like to–they’re great kids, and he usually enjoys hearing about their antics–because he’s too focused on dragging his sorry self up the stairs so he can lay down in a proper bed. And then he remembers that his bed is broken, so he amends the thought to ‘a proper sofa’. Either way it works. Something soft. Softer than stairs, anyway. Even a blanket on the floor sounds nice. Fuck he’s tired. He can’t remember ever being so tired in his life.

James is trailing behind them, ever silent, even as Simone keeps talking. And then Clint looks up ahead, and there’s _another_ James. Clint stumbles, startled. “James?” he calls, but it’s Simone who answers. “Are you expecting a friend? I haven’t seen anyone around tonight.” And she’s looking straight at the James in front of them when she says it, so that answers his question easily enough. He’s seeing more than one James now.

This fucking poison.

He’s glad when he gets into his apartment and can flop onto his sofa and close his eyes. He doesn’t have to pretend he’s okay anymore, and he doesn’t have to look at the James apparitions around him either. He counted _six_ before he squeezed his eyes shut.

It’s useless to try and sleep. He knows it is, he won’t get any REM sleep so his brain won’t get the rest it needs and by morning he’ll slip deeper into this state of mental breakdown. But he’s so fucking exhausted he can’t help falling asleep the moment his eyes close.

There is a bar of sunlight in Clint’s eyes; he jerks to try to get out of the sun and falls onto the floor. He doesn’t understand how that happened, but then he remembers he was on the sofa. Because his bed is broken. Because James broke it.

James.

_James_. Clint sits up, searching for James, wincing at the aches and pains throughout his body. He feels like someone’s been punching him for a few hours, something he’s sorry he has experience with to compare the sensation. But his apartment is empty. There’s a phantom James leaning against the door, but Clint can tell he’s not the real one. He’s got a hand resting on the doorknob, but half his hand is actually _inside_ the doorknob.

Clint’s mind is racing, trying to find the answer. James said he’d be here Thursday. It’s Thursday, right? He mentally checks the days, and yeah, he’s pretty sure it’s Thursday. He thinks back to their conversation, and now that he’s really thinking about it he can’t remember if James ever said when on Thursday he was coming. Clint’s brain just always supplied “morning” after “Thursday”. He just thought he had to hold on until Thursday morning, and then he could stop worrying, could just let whatever was going to happen go ahead and happen.

Only now he doesn’t know what to do. Because it’s Thursday morning and James clearly isn’t here.

And he’s feeling worse.

His fever is back, if the chills and the achy joints are any indication. And his vision is going funny now too. Not exactly blurry, but wobbly. Like the squiggly lines you sometimes see in cartoons to show when something smells bad. His eyes are seeing squiggly stink lines everywhere, and it’s worse than seeing James. James he can just disbelieve, or tell to go away, or ignore. But these wobbles, they’re everywhere. And for a guy called Hawkeye, having squiggly vision is just about the worst there is.

He thinks about taking some more of that fever reducer stuff and ultimately decides against it. Who knows how it will react to whatever James is bringing for him? Besides, at this point it would be like throwing a bandaid on a gaping chest wound. Either James is going to save him or he’s not. Bringing his fever down is only going to make him feel a little better for a few minutes, right? It’s not going to make a difference in the grand scheme.

But James isn’t here. At first Clint feels like a girl stood up on prom night. “I came home just for you,” he croaks. “I could have stayed at the Tower.” But it only takes an hour or so for him to get worried. Did something happen? Did he get caught in one of those raids he’d said were so easy? Had he taken too many risks because he was trying to save Clint? Did the HYDRA bases start ramping up their security because they knew a “vigilante squad” was out for them? Of course they must know it was James, they must have security footage, and it must grate at them any time they saw on the news that their precious Winter Soldier was noted as a mere squad of vigilantes.

So Clint goes from sprawled on the sofa to pacing the floor to shooting arrows at the wall to pacing again. He only shoots the one time; he can’t find his equilibrium and nearly shoots the door instead of the knot in the doorframe he’s aiming for. The pacing doesn’t last long either; his legs are weak and his knees keep wobbling. He’s been awake for several hours when he finally remembers James told him he should drink extra water.

He’s so turned around he hasn’t even made coffee yet.

The coffee settles him a little, but he’s still seeing wavy lines in the air. And it’s worse when he closes his eyes; as soon as his eyelids fall the room spins around him and he’s sure he’s falling off of whatever surface he’s on, even if he’s laying flat on his back.

James had been right. This is a fucking nightmare.

He eats a few times–granola bars, a banana that gives him dirty thoughts while he eats it, a bowl of cereal. He drinks water and coffee and a glass of orange juice. He tries to move as little as possible. He has long conversations with James in his head, and possibly sometimes out loud. He’s not really sure anymore.

His phone rings a few times. He doesn’t answer. He hopes no one comes barging over; now is a very bad time for an intervention.

At some point he looks out the window and it’s dark again. When did that happen? He remembers the sun waking him up, and some pain, and his eyes being funny.

But now it’s dark?

He has to sleep. His brain can’t think anymore. Can’t remember. Can’t find the–

James. He has to hold onto James.

He falls asleep whispering James’s name into his empty apartment.

“Don’t! It hurts!” Clint starts awake. There’s too much light in his eyes–it’s day again– and something is touching his head and it feels like it’s going to pull his hair out. He just wants it to _stop_ ; without much thought he lashes out with both his arms and his legs. His left hand connects with something and there’s a crack. Clint sucks in air at the pain and there’s a muffled sound above him.

There’s a chuckle, then, “I have to say, that’s not quite the hello I was expectin’, sweetheart.”

“James.” Clint means to shout, but the name comes out more as a sigh of relief. “James,” he repeats, a little stronger. “Yesterday. James, you said–”

“I know darlin’, and I’m so sorry,” James says, effortlessly pulling Clint onto his lap and enfolding him into his arms. “It took longer than expected to find what I needed. And I still… Well. It’s complicated. Can I just hold you for a minute first?”

Clint just nods and nuzzles his face into James’s neck; he still feels dizzy, still feels the poison corrupting his body, but this is the safest he’s felt in days. He breathes deep. He can feel James’s heart beating against his chest, a slow, steady counterpoint to the racing of his own heart.

“I think I’m going crazy,” Clint says. “Crazy, ah, _er_ , I mean. More crazy. There are lots of fake James’s now. And squiggly lines everywhere. Also I fell asleep walking up the stairs.”

“You fell asleep–” He gives Clint an unbelieving stare, a small smile on his face. Then the serious look comes back. “You’re not getting any sleep. Not any _real_ sleep, anyway. We need to get you fixed up.” He pulls something out of his pocket. It can’t be much, because it’s completely lost in his palm, and when James closes his hand around it Clint can’t see it at all.

“Is that it? Is that my cure?” James is acting odd, so Clint goes for a laugh. “Well go ahead, stick it in me.” He manages a grin and a wink.

“Sick as you are, and still the innuendo.” James shakes his head, but he’s smiling too.

Clint pulls in a deep breath, lets it out. “James, I’ve been terrified for days. If I don’t make a joke I’ll probably start screaming.” He looks at James. “What took you so long?”

“Turns out stealing a plane is more difficult than anticipated.”

Clint laughs, a real laugh, because James is amazing and he can’t believe what he’s done, the risks he’s taken, to save Clint. But the laugh gets out of control, and soon it’s bordering on hysterical. Everything comes crashing down on him at once, not just the past few days but the past few _months_ –the ache and betrayal he felt when James left him, the insanity he felt building up inside when the fake James started following him around, the elation of James showing up in his apartment, the crash when he found out about the poison. Every little moment spins around in his brain, out of control, and he feels like he’s slipping over a precipice into a void that will never let him go. But James is there, solid and safe, murmuring into his hair, telling him he’s not alone, he’s sorry he was so late and he hated every second he was gone but he had to find the antidote, because he couldn’t let Clint go, not after he’d found him after so long…

It takes Clint a few minutes to calm down. At one point he starts to laugh again, but it’s only because he’s long and gangly and he never gets to sit on anyone’s lap but here he is, cuddled on James’s lap like it’s nothing. It’s nice to have a strong boyfriend, he thinks. And then he almost starts to cry, thinking he might die and leave James behind, but he takes a deep breath and manages to hold onto some kind of control. “I’m okay,” he says when he trusts his voice. “And I’m ready, James. I trust you. Whatever you’ve got, I trust you.”

James maneuvers them so Clint is straddling his lap, so he’s looking right into Clint’s eyes while he talks. “I have an antidote, darlin’, but it’s not what I was expectin’ to bring you. What HYDRA had, it wasn’t exactly an antidote; it would flush the compound out of your system but wouldn’t heal the damage done already. Do you understand? The poison would be out of your system, but it’s been doin’ a number on your brain for weeks now, and it wouldn’t fix that. The hallucinations, they wouldn’t go away.”

Clint’s insides turn to ice.

“So I had to make an antidote myself, using HYDRA’s formula and…” He looks at Clint, and there’s hurt and pleading in his eyes. “Clint, I need you to understand. It’s not a good solution. It’s not what I would have done if I could have done anything else. But it’s the only way…”

“I trust you, James. I’ve put my life in your hands before, I’m not gonna stop now.” He kisses James softly. “Make me better please.”

There’s raw pain in James’s voice. “It’s gonna hurt, sweetheart. It’s gonna hurt a lot, but it was the only–”

Clint kisses him, hard and deep, partly so he can’t talk but also because he just loves kissing James. They’re both breathless when he stops. He looks into James’s eyes and says, “Just do it. Please.”

James looks settled and solid when he shows Clint the vial he’s been holding. It’s got a swirling liquid in it; it fascinates Clint because it seems to change color while he looks at it, red and blue and green and sometimes even silver, but other times it’s just clear and he’s sure it’s nothing, just saline, just a placebo, something to make him believe it’s a cure when really there _is_ no cure.

James’s touch on his face, soft but real, brings him back to reality. James would never do that to him.

“This,” James says, and there’s a brokenness in his voice that hit’s Clint deep inside, “is what I came up with. It’s a combination of the antidote and...Clint, I’m sorry, but it’s the supersoldier serum they gave me all those years ago. It’s a very small dose,” he says quickly, and it sounds like he’s trying to calm the suddenly racing heartbeat he surely can feel in Clint’s chest. “I don’t know exactly what it will do to you. My hope is that it will just fix up what the dreamflower compound did to your brain. But it...sweetheart, it could do a lot more.” He holds Clint, kissing the top of his head. “I’ll be here the whole time, though you might not even know it. I won’t leave you alone. I promise, darlin’.”

Clint doesn’t know what to think anymore. Maybe he doesn’t know _how_ to think anymore. But he knows James is trying to save him. He trusts James to do the right thing.

“Okay,” Clint says. The word is weak, but the intention behind it is strong, and he can feel James relaxing all along his body. Not completely, but the slight loosening of muscles that says, ‘alright, that mission has been accomplished, now on to the next one.’ Clint is familiar enough with that feeling to recognize it in another. He nuzzles against James’s neck for a moment longer and then moves enough to look up into his eyes. “Do it, James.” And this time he manages to sound firm, and sure of himself, and he sees James’s jaw tighten and his quick, tight nod. Alright.

James fills a hypo, finds the right vein in Clint’s arm, and injects him with the “cure.”

And Clint is gone, falling down into darkness. The last thing he feels is James kissing his forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please scream at me about the ending. I really wanna hear it. 😜


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How do you feel now?”
> 
> “Hungry,” Clint says immediately. “Famished. Like I haven’t eaten in a month. Let’s order pizza.”
> 
> Chuckling, James says, “We’ll get food, I promise. But let’s get back to you, alright? Feel anything besides hunger?”
> 
> Clint takes a minute to think about that. Without sitting up he tests his muscles, flexing and relaxing, stretching and twisting. “I feel great, actually. Throat’s a little sore, but it’s not so bad. Pain’s almost gone, actually. How long was I out?” His mind is racing. He’s underselling it, he feels _fantastic_. He wants to get up and jump and run. He wants to get his hands on a bow. He wants to–

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy last day of 2020!!
> 
> I know this chapter has been a long time coming, and I know I left y'all with a ~~bit of a~~ cliffhanger, but...well. Life. But here it is! And (hopefully) the next ones won't take so long. Please send good writing vibes!! 😉
> 
> Love, Lira 🏹
> 
> This is also a BBB fill!!
> 
> Y1: First time
> 
> And because I have a swap token (gifted to me by the lovely Pherryt, my guru and beta and everything else)...this gives me a BINGO!!! I'm swapping out B1 (which I didn't fill) for B4 - Hot Water (one of my favorites!) and that gives me a Bingo all the way across the top row! I can't figure out how to get the images here (it's too early) but I will include them in my tumblr post later today (aka after work) and if I can fix this one then I'll delete this rambling. But I _do_ have the swap token. Yay for getting a bingo ~~at the very last second~~!!!

_The stars are falling, he thinks. So many stars, and so many colors. He doesn’t remember the stars being quite so colorful before, but he knows something_ (what was it what was it) _happened to make him muddled and confused, so he thinks maybe he’s just forgotten the colors along with his name and the reason for the pain in his molecules._ (and since when can he feel molecules that doesn’t make sense either)

_But the stars are beautiful, leaving trails of color across the sky, almost like a midnight rainbow. Are those a thing? He can’t remember_ (what else is he forgetting) _much._

There are fingers in his hair. For a moment he remembers where he is, who is running fingers through his hair again and again, making him ache with longing for more and to open his eyes and focus, but before he can fully grasp the thought he slips back into sleep. Into dreams.

_He’s so small. He knows he was bigger once, remembers bigger hands with rough fingertips_ (there’s a name for that what is that called he lost the word) _but now he’s small and afraid. He should be safe here, Daddy’s too heavy to climb the littlest branches. And Daddy never finds him up here anyway. Daddy never looks up._

_Clint likes being up high. He always has, has always liked to have the high ground._ (what does that mean?) _He can see everything from the top of this tree. Their farm looks different from here, all smooth and soft and gentle._ (it’s not) _He wonders what the birds are thinking about when they look down at their farm. If they see the pretty picture, or if they see the ugly things too._ (there are lots of ugly things) _A hawk lands next to him, a big, dark thing with bits of purple in its wings. It looks at Clint with sharp eyes. “I won’t let him hurt you,” the hawk says, and it has Clint’s voice. Almost Clint’s voice. Deeper. Older._

_“Are you me?” Clint asks._

_The bird clicks his beak, and it sounds like laughter. “Something like that.”_

“Drink this,” a voice says, and there is a glass pressed to his lips. Cool water eases the fire in his throat; but when he gulps the glass is pulled away. “Easy, easy,” the voice says. “Don’t want it comin’ back up.” After a pause, the glass comes back, and the voice grumbles, “Like last time.”

But the voice isn’t angry. It sounds...affectionate. Loving, even. Clint wants to ask who it is taking care of him, but he can’t make his mouth do anything but drink water. His tongue is too heavy, his lips too numb. He must have his aids in, because he can hear, but he can’t make his eyes focus. The owner of the voice is just a blur. Smells good though. Gives Clint a warm feeling in his belly. He wants to stay, wants to be awake and listen to more of the voice, but the sleep is pulling him under again. 

_“You’ve got to make a choice,” Phil Coulson says._

_Clint can’t see Phil. He’s not actually there. He’s just a voice, like the narrator of Clint’s life. Or dream, because surely this is another dream. But he knows the voice, would know Phil’s voice anywhere. He’s the one who took a chance on a messed up kid and turned him into...well, a semi-functional adult. And, eventually, an Avenger._

_He’s standing on a path, just where it forks. He can go left, or he can go right._

_“There’s no sign,” he says to Phil. Or possibly to himself._

_“Doesn’t matter,” Phil says. “You know which one’s right.”_

_Clint closes his eyes. He’s not listening–he **uses** his ears, but he doesn’t **rely** on them–he’s just...feeling. Sensing. Something. He’s not sure what it is he does when he’s shooting, the sense that allows him to do complex calculations in his head and understand wind speed and direction and the inherent differences involved in shooting from the ground versus shooting from above with barely a conscious effort. It’s just part of who he is. And after a moment he knows which path to take._

_It’s not the right._

_It’s not the left._

_With no hesitation he turns around and walks back the way he’d come. About two minutes later he finds what he’s looking for: a small, overgrown path he’d missed the first time._

_Phil doesn’t say anything, but Clint knows it’s the right choice._

_He’s pushing through brambles when he hears another voice calling to him. “James!” he shouts. “James! I can’t–” The brambles thicken, seem to reach out and grab onto his clothes, even wrap around his legs. “I can’t get through! Where are you?”_

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” James says, and then Clint can feel him, the solid, anchoring weight of him, beside him on the sofa. He’s with James, in his own apartment, on his sofa, and he feels more himself than he has in _months_.

“James,” he says, or tries to say. It’s more a croak than anything else. His throat is raw, like he’s been… He closes his eyes, tries again. “James. Have I been screaming?” He keeps his voice calm but he can taste the edge of panic on his tongue.

There’s the slightest hesitation from James, and then he says, “Some. But I was able to soothe you through most of the worst of it, I think. How do you feel now?”

“Hungry,” Clint says immediately. “Famished. Like I haven’t eaten in a month. Let’s order pizza.”

Chuckling, James says, “We’ll get food, I promise. But let’s get back to you, alright? Feel anything besides hunger?”

Clint takes a minute to think about that. Without sitting up he tests his muscles, flexing and relaxing, stretching and twisting. “I feel great, actually. Throat’s a little sore, but it’s not so bad. Pain’s almost gone, actually. How long was I out?” His mind is racing. He’s underselling it, he feels _fantastic_. He wants to get up and jump and run. He wants to get his hands on a bow. He wants to–

He feels James’s hand on his skin, where it’s resting on his wrist, thumb drawing little circles on his arm. A week ago it would have been an electric sort of sensation, being touched by James. There’s still that, to a point. But he can also feel every individual hair on the back of his arm moving under James’s thumb. He can feel the heat differential between his arm and James’s hand–James is warmer by 1.2 degrees. He jumps. How can he possibly know that?

He closes his eyes, breathes deep. His heart is still racing, but he calms it with a few breaths. Good. Good. Okay. He thinks about it logically. He’s always had another sense, something probably a lot of other people have but they’ve never learned how to use. He thinks of it as his archery sense, but it’s not that, not really. It’s more than that. It’s an awareness of himself, of his surroundings. And now it’s stronger.

A lot stronger.

“The serum,” he whispers.

James tenses up beside him; his thumb stills, even his breathing nearly stops. “Have you,” He stops, licks his lips, swallows, then tries again. “Have you _changed_?”

“I can _feel_ ,” Clint breathes. “I can feel _everything_.” And it might not be exactly true, but it’s close enough. He can feel James’s breath on his cheek, even the tiny vibrations from his eyes blinking. He probably couldn’t feel that from across the room, but who knows? He can feel a current of air coming from the tiny crack under the door, and the warmer air coming from the radiator against the wall. He knows there’s a window open upstairs, and when he closes his eyes and thinks about it he can tell it’s the one next to his bed. He wonders if James opened it.

“Did you come in through the window?” he asks, not really thinking about it, still marveling at his senses. “The one next to my bed?”

“How did y–” James starts, but then snaps his mouth shut with a clack of his teeth. After a few deep breaths he says, “Yeah. I don’t have a key to your place, but getting in through the window was easy. The fire escape is right there, and the lock is child’s play.”

“Tasha says the door locks are child’s play.”

“I’m sure they are, but I didn’t want to stand in your hallway and risk someone seeing me picking your locks. The window is–” He stops again, as if suddenly realizing what Clint’s statement meant. After a pause he asks, “Your best friend breaks into your apartment? Why don’t you give her a key?”

Clint grins. “Letting her break in is like giving her a present. Sometimes I add new locks, just for fun. Trust me, she loves it.”

“Only you, sweetheart,” James says, kissing Clint’s forehead. And hungry as he was ten seconds ago, all thought of food disappears from his mind.

The feel of James’s lips on his forehead, on his _skin_ , and he doesn’t care anything about eating anymore.

“James,” he breathes, and he finds out right away that he’s stronger now too. Not as strong as James, or Steve, but strong enough. Because switching their positions, so instead of curled up side by side on his oversized sofa he’s got James flat on his back, his own arms and legs caging him in place? It takes almost no effort at all.

“Clint,” James says, running his tongue across his lower lip. “Sweetheart. This is–” He interrupts himself, letting out a low moan, his eyes rolling back in his head, possibly in response to Clint lowering his hips enough to roll his suddenly rock hard erection against James’s groin. He shudders a breath, then manages to keep going. “This is fucking amazing, but I really think you should get some food first. And as much as I’d lo–” His voice catches; Clint is still rubbing against him, not quite frantic yet, but certainly getting his point across, and he’s started sucking little bruises on James’s neck, just below his ear.

“Did you say something?” Clint murmurs, then sucks another mark onto James’s neck. It won’t last, not the way he heals, but it doesn’t matter. The _sounds_ coming from James, he could keep doing this forever.

“Fuck,” James says. His voice is raw, scraped. It sends a shiver down Clint’s spine.

“That’s the idea,” Clint says.

James moans.

Pushing himself up on his hands, Clint looks into James’s eyes, deep and blue and all for him. “I’ll stop if you want me to. I think you know that. But please believe me when I say I’m okay. Amazing, in fact. And I’d very much like to celebrate not being dead by riding your dick. You can give me a good going over afterwards, I’ll jump through whatever hoops you’ve got, alright?”

James tries to say something but all that comes out is a squeaking sound. Clint resists the urge to giggle, but he can’t hold back the smile. James smiles back at him, pupils blown wide with arousal and want. He nods, licks his lips, then tries again. “Alright,” he says, then his grin widens. “As if I could possibly say no to that.”

“You could,” Clint says conversationally, “but would you want to?” He punctuates the question by dragging James’s earlobe lightly between his teeth. James’s hips try to thrust upward, and Clint surprises himself by using his own thighs to hold James almost still. Clint jerks back a little, far enough that their eyes can meet, and Clint can see his own surprise reflected in James’s gaze. Then he gives James a rather wicked grin. “Let’s see what this new and improved body of mine can do, shall we?”

“Oh _hell_ yes,” James says, clawing at the front of Clint’s shirt to pull him back down for a kiss. It’s sloppy and deep and searing, and every lick and nibble sends fire racing throughout Clint’s body. It’s almost like having his first kiss all over again, like he’s never been kissed before and is experiencing everything anew. The softness of James’s lips, the heat of his tongue, the rasp of his stubble rubbing on the almost over-sensitive skin around his mouth. He’s awash in sensation, like standing under a waterfall of pleasure, and they don’t even have their clothes off yet. The thought of all their skin touching nearly makes him pass out.

But that’s what he wants, it’s what he needs. He pulls himself away from James–part of him aching at the loss of James’s mouth–and rests lightly on James’s thighs to pull his t-shirt over his head. He can _feel_ the wildness in his eyes, can see it in the way James is looking at him, but James is reaching for him again so it must be good.

James reaches up almost reverently, running a hand lightly over his chest. “I’m glad you still have your scars, darlin’. They make you…” He stops, taking in the way Clint is shuddering and barely breathing. “I’m gonna spend the rest of my life touching every square inch of your skin,” he says, and Clint keens.

“Not enough skin,” Clint says, tugging at the hem of James’s shirt. “My skin, it all feels new, like I’ve got ten times as many nerves as before. It’s–” He’s struggling to get the shirt over James’s head; it doesn’t help that he’s got James trapped underneath him. He’s pulling and James is trying to help and then Clint, frustrated, just tears the shirt from the neck to the hem.

Eyes wide but full of mirth, James says, “Is that how our sex life is gonna be, darlin’? Always endin’ up with torn clothes? I’m not complainin’, as such, but I think I might need to expand my wardrobe a bit.”

Clint’s still staring at the torn shirt, and the bare chest underneath it. “I’m stronger now,” he says, somewhat dazed. “Have to be careful.”

James’s voice drips arousal. “Not with me.”

And Clint doesn’t need any more invitation than that.

The quick, even beating of James’s heart under Clint’s hand reaches out to the pulsing of his own blood; he can feel it surging throughout his body, bringing oxygen and life and _heat_ , so much heat. James is heating up beneath him, and he wonders if it’s always been this way, bodies coming together to make fire, but then James’s wandering hands make their way into his pants. He stops wondering. Stops thinking.

“Yes,” he says, angling himself so James can get a better grip on his ass. More hands, more skin, more sparks. He wants James’s pants off, wants _all_ the clothes off, but he’s got to work with what he’s got. He’s got his hands in James’s hair now, kissing his mouth, his cheeks, his forehead, anything he can reach.

“Yes,” he says again. He’s not sure why he’s saying it, except that everything felt wrong for so long and suddenly everything feels right. And James is here, and no one is dying, and now they can have everything, can’t they? So _yes_ just sums it all up.

He snakes an arm past James’s head, down into the depths of the sofa. He’s digging around, searching, when James starts making impatient noises. “Sorry love,” Clint says, his face buried in James’s neck. “It’s just–” He grunts, straining to the limit of his reach. “Yes! Got it!” He pulls his arm out and flashes a triumphant grin at James, giving him a quick kiss on the nose. “I knew there was lube in there somewhere. Always keep a few tubes hidden around the place for emergencies.”

“You have many emergencies on the sofa?”

Clint grins. “I’m pretty sure there’s a dildo down there somewhere too. I don’t always want to go up to my room you know.”

James laughs. “Kiss me,” he says. “We went way too long without kisses. I need them all now.”

“I can’t say no to that,” Clint says.

Somehow he manages to get his pants off without breaking the kiss.

“That takes talent,” James murmurs into his skin.

“Getting naked, and, you know, other naked-related activities–that’s my second best thing. If I could shoot naked it would be the best of every possible world.”

“It’s a good thing you’re so tall,” James says dryly. “You’ve got to have the extra space in your body for that giant ego.”

Clint nips playfully at James’s earlobe. “You wouldn’t want me any other way. Besides, it’s not ego. It’s awesomeness.”

“I don’t think that’s even a word,” James says.

“I told you a long time ago to leave my grammar alo–” But Clint has been multitasking, lubing up his fingers and getting ready to open himself up, and the sudden sensation of even his own fingers thrust up inside himself is too much for his brain to take. James’s fingers dig into his thighs, tight enough to leave a bruise, and he briefly wonders if he’s got healing abilities like James now, but then James shifts under him and he moves his fingers again and he’s just _feeling_ again.

Almost like he’s reading Clint’s mind, James says, “I wonder if these bruises will last. You’re so…” Their foreheads press together, and after a few shuddering breaths James says, “It doesn’t matter. You’re still you. Still...mine.” Clint can hear the smile in his voice.

“Always,” Clint says, and for a few heartbeats they hold still, just like that, letting the moment be sappy and sweet.

Then James says, “Don’t stop now, darlin’. I seem to recall you said somethin’ about ridin’ me, and I’m gonna need you to do that soon or I’m gonna explode.”

“Can’t have that,” Clint says, adding a third finger. He’s tempted to just call it good enough, but he knows better. Even when his brain is a bit muddled by thoughts of _JamesJamesJames_ he still knows better. So he keeps on with the relentless in and out, working himself open, with every thrust of his fingers reminding himself that soon it’ll be James sending him towards oblivion.

After a few minutes–or hours, or years, it’s hard to tell–James asks, “Are you good?” There’s a catch in his voice, echoing Clint’s own desperate need.

“I’m good,” Clint says. “I’m so, so good.” He’s practically babbling, but he’s way past caring. He pulls his fingers out, feels the ache at the loss, then moves to position himself over James, only to stop in confusion. “James. You still have your pants on.”

“Christ, Barton, you think I didn’t know that?” James sounds half frustrated, half amused. “You’ve had me pinned down, kissing the breath out of me, showing off your newfound strength. When did I have a chance to get them off?”

“But I...I mean, you should have...I didn’t realize…I’m so…” And now he is babbling, not making any sense at all, and James is laughing, and trying to get his pants unbuttoned, and Clint is trying to help but their hands keep getting tangled, and after ten seconds or so of this they roll off the sofa and hit the floor with a hard thump.

At first it’s just funny, being too wrapped up in each other to stay on the sofa, but then it’s exquisite, because he can _feel_ where his hip hit the floor–but there’s no _pain_. He knows–from personal experience–that landing like that should hurt, but instead it just feels mildly irritating.

And then it’s funny again.

“James,” Clint says, laughing. “I’m not hurt! I’m actually–” He falls into laughter again, and when he calms down enough to speak, still grinning, he says, “I don’t even know what to think. Who is going to be the walking disaster of the Avengers now?”

“Trust me, you’re still a disaster,” James says, letting his head fall back to thump on the floor. “You just might spend less time in medical.”

“Mmm, I can live with that,” Clint says, rolling up onto his side to pepper kisses on James’s jaw and neck. “Leaves more time for fun things. And Nat gets tired of trying to keep me from breaking out of there anyway.”

“So you said.” James has his eyes closed, and Clint can hear his ragged breathing, and the way his heartbeat is speeding up again. Clint pulls away to look at him and James breathes, “Don’t stop. Please. That’s...that’s good.”

James can’t see him, but when Clint smirks James says, “Don’t be so proud of yourself,” which makes Clint laugh out loud again.

But when Clint moves to straddle James again his eyes fly open and he practically shouts, a wordless cry that startles Clint into falling backwards onto his ass, which very nearly makes him start laughing again. He’s only stopped by the fire in James’s eyes. “No way, darlin’. You’re not climbin’ on top of me until my pants are off. And kindly remove them _without_ doin’ them damage, if at all possible.” There’s teasing in his voice, to temper the glare, but he’s serious too. “Remember what landed us here on the floor?”

So instead of settling himself on top of James he kneels between his legs and starts to undo his pants. But he decides to be at least a _little_ bit of a brat about it.

“It was a _hard_ week, with you gone. Not knowing if you’d make it back, if I’d survive the poison. I was half out of my mind, going _nuts_. But I had to _thrust_ all those thoughts away, I just did all I could to be happy, and every minute I just hoped you’d _come_.” His fingers move slowly, slowly, first undoing the button and then lowering the zip, adding as much innuendo to his speech as he can. By the time he’s easing James’s pants down his thighs James is trembling, begging Clint to go faster. Clint makes a shushing noise. “Now now, love, we shouldn’t rush these things, should we?”

James actually growls at him. “Clint Barton, if you don’t hurry up and climb on top of me I’m gonna toss you onto the sofa and fuck you silly, and the sofa might end up as broken as your bed.”

Clint gives him his sauciest wink. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

“Clint.” It’s almost a bark.

“Should we move onto the sofa? Or maybe up to the bedr–oof!” Halfway through the word James launches himself at Clint, which is fairly impressive from flat on his back. He catches Clint around the middle and drags him onto the sofa, pinning him down, kissing him almost savagely. Clint can’t say he minds.

“So, not the bedroom then?” Clint says when James gives him a chance to breathe. He laughs at the look of annoyance on James’s face. “Come on,” he teases. “You know you love me.”

James’s face softens. “Yeah. I do. Even when you’re like…” He searches for a word, then just finishes with, “This.”

Clint smiles back, a sweet little smile. “I feel incredible, James. Like I could do anything, like I could _fly_. Well okay, probably not fly, since I don’t have wings, but I’ll bet I could survive a jump from somewhere really high up. We should test–”

He swallows the rest of the sentence, because James’s tongue is in his mouth, and there is so much _skin_ touching his, and what had he been talking about anyway?

James is holding him down, just like he said he would, pressing his metal arm across Clint’s chest while he lubes himself up with the other hand. “I thought I was gonna–” Clint starts, but the commanding look in James’s eyes stops him.

“Does it matter?”

Clint swallows and shakes his head, too turned on to speak.

So James takes control, lining up and thrusting into Clint in one go, and Clint’s brain goes into sensory overload.

He’s got James inside him, filling him to bursting, nerves singing with pleasure. The arm across his chest is just tight enough to make him feel constricted, making his heart race in a pleasurable sort of way, plus when James shifts a little his arm rubs against Clint’s nipples, sending sparks across his skin. James’s other hand is on his hip, fingers digging in, perfect bruises forming. His mouth kisses every part of Clint he can reach: his mouth, his jaw, his neck, his ear. Clint can feel the tiniest pressure changes from James’s lips, the heat of James’s breath across his skin, the vibrations of the words James murmurs between kisses. He knows he should be listening to the words, should be responding in kind, should be _participating_ , but at this point he’s really just trying to stay on the fucking planet. He’s glad James is holding him down, he’s pretty sure he’d just float away without a tether.

He’s never felt anything like this. He’s going to vibrate out of his skin and he hasn’t even come yet.

After a while–time is meaningless in this overwhelming sea of sensation–he realizes he’s saying James’s name over and over, not crying out, just chanting it again and again. It’s almost like a prayer. He’s still a bit lost when James kisses the tears from his cheeks (when did he start crying?) and says, “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you. It’s alright. You’re alright.”

“Yes,” he whispers. “You got me. James...James…” He’s panting, his hands fisted so tight his nails are threatening to pierce the skin of his palms. James is pounding into him, relentless, tireless, and when Clint opens his eyes James is right there, looking right into him, and the intensity and love in his gaze sends Clint over the edge. 

He gets lost in the orgasm too. He should expect it, on this day of new sensations, but it takes him completely by surprise. It’s like the first time all over again. Better even. A thousand times better. He lets out a wordless cry as he lets go, his whole body electric. James follows just after, and it’s another wave of sensation–the shuddering gasp, the grasping fingertips, the frantically kissing lips. James’s hair falls across his face and he can feel the trace of each individual hair, not to mention the puff of James’s breath on his neck. James relaxes; his arms get into more comfortable positions on either side of Clint’s chest and he lets his weight settle onto Clint.

It’s just right. He’s heard the word bliss before, has even used it a time or two. But this has got to be what it truly means. This moment, right here.

When he finds his voice again he says, “Don’t move, okay?”

Clint feels the rumble of James’s laugh against his body. “Sure. Nowhere else I need to be just now anyway.”

“I don’t mean just now. I mean ever. Don’t move _ever_ , okay?”

James goes still. After a breath, then two, then three, he says, “I’m not leavin’ you, sweetheart. I’m eventually gonna get off this sofa, but I’m all yours, alright? I’m not gonna disappear again. Not even if I think it’s the best way to keep you safe. You an’ me, seems we belong together. Don’t you think?”

“Love you,” Clint says. It’s not the most eloquent answer, but it’s the best one he can think of. Then he relaxes too. “Besides, you need to help me figure out all the tricks of my new body, which feels fucking fantastic so far, by the way. But who else is gonna help me do that? Steve? No thank you.”

There’s another long pause, and Clint starts to think he probably made a mistake bringing up Steve, but finally James just laughs. Clint likes the rumble of that laugh vibrating against his body. He wants to feel it every day, forever.

He’s overwhelmed again when he realizes that maybe, just maybe, he can.


End file.
